CHANT
It reverbed beyond belief
to folk before the rood.
It colored the air like the glass.
The certifiers of God
pronounced it the sound of the soul
slipping the traces of plow,
promising great beyondness
beyond the sheep on the close.
The purified mouths of men,
the sound of absent organ,
the doubt of vibrato forgotten
like sketches of perspective,
exhort the stricken me
here in this beachside condo
that I was offered God
as naked before the window
I wrestle my angel of Clay,
their CD’d voices bleeding
their sated, unstained avowal,
to hell with my ocean howl.
Previously published in Barrow Street.