Blanket of Stars

Of all things, the sky is impervious.

Underneath I dream
a bad road,
and still batter whale bellies
and tourists for tin roofs.

In dreams we talk west
with tail ends and sweet backs
and stew builders;

we prone the body, there,
or nail a rattler,

or make a hole in the water
when the batting's been handed the match.

Trust

These leaves,
this grain,
these ties -
knowing
Elohim knows
the best way home;

Trust vining
through years

And then the spring sky
resting on trees,

and a finished thing inscribed,

moments gathered decades
near basement doors,

and winter's dropped knives
found.

My cold hands
have been a name for you
as long as I've been full of sin.

I've been my own way through,

And I
remember well

trusting,

the way slate
Connecticut tombstones
trust the earth,
near the sea.