To folk before the rood

it colored the air like the glass,

echoed beyond belief.  

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,

their tone absent of organ,

the doubt of vibrato forgotten

like sketches of perspective,

exhort the stricken me

here in this beachside condo

that I am 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.

This poem originally appeared in Barrow Street.