Heaven

The sun hangs like a yolk in the sky,

a sky that has cracked open

that we may look upon heaven.

thunderheads

the moon is a crab

scuttling through the sand of the sky—

thunderheads ride on her back

prayers

somewhere south of heaven

the moon crawls across the sky,
our prayers over her shoulder

Unholy War

The spangled stars are corpuscles, leukocytes,

pale scars on blackened skin.

Oh, when will this unholy war end?

Winter

Winter wraps itself around this town

like an old woman

pulling on a shawl.