Still

Not the viscosity of air, not
gaunt shadows of ancient
granite. Not gritty bare earth
where the grass will not root.

Not the limp sodden war
flags, the erosion of names,
not the long iron fence, black
and bullet stark with purpose.

This is what it means to be
born still. You are bathed,
swaddled, presented, held
kissed, caressed, but the air

has gone silent, an image
trapped in glass, waiting
for your breath to shatter.

The Wages of Cloister

This is the Third Pig's house, the brick house, the impenetrable
solid house no wolf's breath can destroy, this house of square
shoulders and clenched mandible, this wanton
house.

Inside the desiccated long stare of three pig brothers together
standing against the world, the wolf gone, abandoned, this
house their angel, their benefactor, their impenetrable solid
tomb.