by David Rivard

    I've died enough by now I trust

    just what's imperfect or ruined.  I mean God，

    God who is in the stop sign

    asking to be shotgunned， the ocean that evaporates even

    as we float.  God the bent¹ nail & broken lock，

    and God the hangnail.  The hangnail.

    And a million others might be like me， our hopes

    a kind of illegal entry， a belief in smashed windows，

    every breakage

    like breaking & entering into a concert hall，

    the place my friend & I crawled into an air shaft²， & later

    fell asleep.  After breakage

    there is always sleep.

    We woke to gospel hymns³ from the dressing⁴ room

    below， songs commending

    embrace to the fists， & return to the prodigal⁵.

    And hasn't my luck always been a shadow， stepping out， stretching？

    I mean I trust what breaks.

    A broken bone elicits⁶ condolence，

    and the phone call sounds French if the transmission fritzes，

    and our brains——our blessed， desirable brains——are composed

    of infinitesimal magnets， millions of them

    a billionth-of-a-milligram in weight， so

    they make us knock our heads against hard walls.

    When we pushed through the air vent⁷，

    the men singing seemed only a little surprised，

    just slightly freaked，

    three of them in black tuxes， & the fourth in red satin，

    crimson⁸， lit up like a furnace trimmed with paisley swirls⁹，

    the furnace of a planet， or of a fatalistic ocean liner

    crisscrossing a planet we've not discovered yet，

    a fire you might love to be thrown into.

    That night they would perform the songs half

    the country kept on its lips half of every day.

    Songs mostly praising or lamenting¹⁰ or accusing some loved one

    of some beautiful， horrendous¹¹ betrayal or affection.

    But dressing， between primping & joking about

    their thinning afros， they sang of Jesus.  Jesus，

    who said， "Split a stick， & you shall find me inside."

    It was the winter we put on asbestos gloves， & flameproof

    stuck our hands in the fireplace， adjusting logs.

    Jesus， we told them， left no proof of having sung a single note.

    And that， said the lead singer， is why we are all sinners.

    What he meant was

    we are all like the saints on my neighbors' lawns——

    whose plaster shoulders & noses，

    chipped cloaks & tiaras， have to be bundled

    in plastic sheets， each winter， blanketed

    from the wind & the cold.  That was what he meant，

    though I couldn't know it then.

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