#vss365 #micropoetry . NONFICTION. Brackettville's library has six Bibles, a taxidermy owl,.and a copy of.The Brothers Karamazov.with cigarette burns.in the margins. Someone has underlined,.repeatedly:."Man only likes counting his troubles.".

#vss365 . THE MONK AND THE HORSE. A monk asked the Khan:.What is greater— war, or wisdom?. The Khan laughed, and pointed to his horse. This is more reliable than both, he said. But l honour the question,.so l will burn your monastery last.

BRACKETTVILLE GOSPEL. Uncle Jeb drinks paint thinner.for the visions. Calls it spiritual sandpaper,.says it scrapes crap.off the soul. He sees cherubs.& speaks in tongues.to the weed whacker. I said,.“Jeb, that's not religion.".He said,.“It is if the weed whacker.answers back.”.

#vss365 #micropoetry . SANCTUS FELIS. I whispered a prayer.to no one.in particular. One of the cats looked up. She was half-asleep,.sceptical,.but at least she noticed. Maybe that's grace enough.for today.

#vss365 #micropoetry . THE COW. The hawthorn flowered early. The cow wouldn’t pass. Three times I pulled,.three times she refused—.something in the sap,.blossoming out of season,.answering another calendar. She snorted, backed away. And I, apostle of the older wisdom, followed.

RELIC. By the hedged barley field.we raised from sleep.a clay god with no face. Put to the right ear,.it spoke in joy. To the left,.a sound hollow with grief. We returned it, respectfully,.to the earth’s keeping. Then the foxes.started to bow there.on feast days not our own.

#vss365 #micropoetry . A THEOLOGY LESSON IN BRACKETTVILLE. The preacher sweated. The lizard blinked. A woman mentioned Calvin. A man shot a bottle. And I understood:.grace is not a doctrine—.it’s a Texas sky.too big to look at.without weeping.or drawing your gun.

#vss365 . THE OTHER WOMAN. The last time I visited her,.she was sat in the dark. She said,.I don’t believe in ghosts,.but I live like one—.no more real.than a name.effaced from marble. She said,.sometimes I wake.in another woman’s dream. I dress quietly,.so as not to disturb her.

STILL LIFE WITH SORRY AND CITRUS. Unreliable reverie,.daydream on the train. Years percolating into minutes. Your dad in a bowling shirt,.with a grapefruit.& a handwritten apology. A headless mannequin. Your first paper cut. How you prayed for weeks.for your goldfish to wake up.

#vss365 . WHEN I WAS SICK. The ER doctor asked.if I had a support network. I said yes,.then named:.Wagner’s Parsifal,.Bukowski,.two dead friends,.and the barista.who put extra marshmallows.on the hot chocolate.whenever I looked glum. He wrote it all down.in perfect seriousness.

#vss365 #micropoetry . THE MOUNTAIN SHRINE. Bronze of the shrine.greened by rain and years. Birds feed at the threshold—.no priest, no rite,.only moss.in the palm of the goddess. I light a match. A sudden wind.issues a rebuke.

#vss365 #micropoetry . NOT WHAT WE MEANT. The lovers.carved their names in bark.and left the tree.to mend itself. Ten years on,.the heart is split.and moss.has blurred the date. The tree still stands—.but I doubt it feels.what we meant it to.

#vss365 . PASSING THAT PLACE. One winter morning,.40 years ago or more,.I saw a girl in a red shawl.waiting under the gorse hedge. I never knew her name,.& never saw her again. But I think.of her absence.when I pass that place. Some loves remain.like mist,.never quite lifting.

#vss365 #micropoetry . FIELD CATECHISM . Down in Brackettville,.Uncle Jeb prays.by placing his right palm.on the hot back of the ox. Seen it myself,.more than once. Nothing else,.just that:.Jeb’s hand,.the flesh,.the sun,.and the waiting.

A DIFFERENT LANGUAGE. The river ran quick that day. I remember you laughing.as it took your shoe. So I too.took off a shoe. Seemed fair. And we sat on the stones,.sharing wet feet. The river has forgotten us now. I’ve been back to listen, .but it speaks a different language.

#vss365 . THE BROKEN FENCE. The white fence I helped mend.as a child.is silvered now,.inlaid with slow moss. A crow arrives. He isn’t afraid. We look at each other.almost in remembrance. Then he’s off,.into the undergrowth,.and I remain—.not sure.what part of me he carried away.

#vss365 #micropoetry . TURNING FIFTY. Middle age.will have fewer names. Rain will come uninvited. I’ll forget to close the gate,.and something wild will enter—.not to ruin,.just to look around. I won’t mind.

#vss365 #micropoetry . FUNNY THING. I passed your house today. Same curtains. Same wilting plant.in the window. I felt nothing—.which, oddly enough,.felt somehow like betrayal.

#vss365 #micropoetry . MINOR LITURGIES. In the old, overgrown chapel.open to the sky.a snail moves across the altar. There is so much patience.in the small things. The saints knew this. We have forgotten.

#vss365 #micropoetry . SIN OF OMISSION. Miss Pauline told the prayer circle.her news both bad and good:.her tumour was shaped like a dove. They wept and passed the casserole. The damn thing turned out to be benign,.but she said nothing,.and still got a casserole every week.