Two Poems

Couple with Their Heads Full of Clouds

    after Dali

Say table, and I’ll say bread. Say cup 
    and I’ll say wine and spoon. The 
        communion of saints. Incline 

your head to me. The forgiveness of sins. 
    Love’s summit. Even an ocean 
        and all its water, its etched waves, 

a distant second. The resurrection of the body. 
    Gather together at the day’s last meal. 
        Climb to the mount of the disheveled 
tablecloth. The life everlasting. Clear 
    the dishes, sweep the crumbs to the ground 
        with the side of your hand. 

It was a field before it was a battlefield

    for Luke

It was a green before a fiddler stood on it,
and made mirth, and never stopped playing.
It was grass. Or maybe a greenwood. Maybe
underbrush, thick at your knees. Unparsable.
We have each taken something that belonged
to itself first, something that was once a wide
and open green. What turns red in spring 
before it greens? The redbud trees along 
the highway. Also the human heart. Each 
glows lamp-like on the road to church.
Virginia rolls with fields and when I say:
it was a field before it was a battlefield,
you say: “And after.” Yes, and after.

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