Good Friday


He’s gone

to find the animal

who tells the story

that destroys us;

he wants to interview

the angel with the teeth;



disfigured miniature

intaglios: clay

dolls of heroes, words

burnt into buried stones,

the molds for masks we



and wear for worship,

somber and nodding and

simpler than we know we are.

Look at the bloodless body

hanging from a rootless tree:


no wonder

in our fear we carve it,

paint it, sing of it, and

pray to believe that only one

unlike ourselves is sanctioned

to attempt such things.

— from Without Paradise

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