by David Groff

David Groff

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.

Last updated September 28, 2022