In Bible Class I stared at a colored print
Of Michelangelo's The Last Judgment.
I looked at the swirling bodies drawn up

Four easy hours from San Francisco, yes
The sitting mallards tip like steel-plate ducks;
Between them, clay-pipe fishes leap and pop

It is as if dawn pliantly compels
The city to relax to sounds and shapes,
To its diagonals and parallels

If there was breeze and open sky,
We raked each swath into a row;

I have a gift for you.
Please open it now
For inside you will find the words

It’s raining for some reason over West St. Clair St. 
That merges in a cloud bank with Riddle Rd.; 
Evening Star Lane lent me to kiss Iris one fine night 

there were faults, ducts formed by the earth tearing
our cities apart. Out of this madness, a cry mounted

as if by name, cursed what sky lay just above Zo'ar,

Salt pillars are no obstacle and we
look forward on remorse. The present rain
of fire is man-made, and from a deader sea

He :     Deep in the cockerel’s golden heart
              I loosed my bolt.
              The clarion-bird lies mute

A poem must break to the surface
and nibble at light,
confounding refraction