Second shelf on the right. You’ll
Never find it. Given
Our father’s cold centennial—
When the snow was too big to fall
But hovered in mid-air as though the air
Had opened white lips
Meaning to speak to us, to say
Something about immortality and correction—
We ought to abandon the search.
Or should I say “the seeking”?
Shelving the town, four cliffs
Evangelize these misgivings.
Second on the right is what became
Of a drunkard obsessed with
Chapter 14 in the Gospel of John.
It’s a Gospel secretly given
To hawks, not to eagles.
Topography emboldens love when hawks
Shatter their prey mid-air out of pure spite.
Mansions of devastation scatter themselves
Into big snow. Our father’s
Cold centennial had a further child,
Hidden from us. In the days ahead she
Will ease us—little predator, little ice.