In the moment of death
can I climb through the bright rectangle
into the resurrection

Out of the twilight a small voice
hisses shut up, just shut the fuck up.

And on the receiver's live air, the insistent hello
from someone who has refused to hang up, the plea
divorced from all name and form,

Rembrandt, 63

The surprise always
something has not abandoned us,

the way, standing there, another’s
expression as you realize

When my right hand—
When the hand that had been mine—
When I found that hand
curling inward stayed
curled

protestations meant nothing; prayers.
Thinking, not thinking—
nothing.

Telipinu went, and he brought away the good. He brought away the plenty, the grain, and the wood.

When the Moon fell, he fell from heaven, and no one saw him fall.

I felt my sin shift itself beneath the skin.

The thump of the newspaper on the porch
on Christmas Day, in the dark before dawn
yet after Santa Claus has left his gifts:

My grandmother used it, Dutch Cleanser, 
in the dark Shillington halls, 
in the kitchen darkened by the grape arbor,