Self Portrait at Lockhart Store, Springville Pa.

I like the blue
directness of
your eyes.

It is as though
they know
with no uncertain
sly delight

the one way one way
all ways
find their way
to your heart

as though you passed
the scree unscathed
as though you’ve lost

all interest in
what makes life


Where is that Most Dangerous God

Where is that most dangerous God
The one who dreamed the bizarre
And luminous creatures swimming
About the deepest abyss.

I can’t imagine this God clothed
In the boring brown sack of a suit or even
in some pastel dress, sitting like an unlived thing,
In the last hard pew at the back of a church.

This God must be somewhere
Clothed in the sparest rags
Of a savage, breaking branches
and leaping from stone to stone.

This most dangerous God
Sneaking up on jungle cats, peering
Into the nests of birds while mothers turn
Nervous circles, swearing overhead.

This God must be pitching matches
Into Volcano and spinning
Madly falling down breathless,
Spent with laughter to have bested Tornado.

And this God surely loves
All the pretty flowers but
Takes particular pleasure in dazzling thorns
And astonishing oceans of sand.

When the venomous
Dare to sink their fangs into His skin
He must be baring His own
And biting them back.

I have to doubt this God
Spends much quiet time writing hymns
At a great white desk or looming over a hall of
Angels, delegating numinous tasks.

I rather think this God throws open
The great yellow doors
Of the morning
With a startling bang.

I rather think this most dangerous God
Rushes into the wide wild world
With anyone— who cares to follow
Hot on His heels.