Ephphatha

The light flakes of snow float in seesaw arcs from skies surrendered to the deafening blows of falling trees and sparrows.

I see mists, I see children in Sequoias, crashing to the earth, the sons of thunder,

in the blue gray light of Portland; take me to the coasts

and grant me wonder. I cannot be defiled by stones and spit. I am God-skinned and waterproof and still a font of treacheries and poison.

I look up to Heaven and I sigh, be opened, and straight away hear bells. Each soft flake of crystal water, sings, a song of rage and lamentation.

I swallow blood and sugar, I choke on mud and bit. I eat boot heels and smear my skin with sinners. But I am porcelain, not among the righteous, I am silver, I am soot.

I see men walking as trees, as spiders. In the arc lights of old Long Island the fluttering swirls of slow rain, pendulous and transformed, the jagged wheels of lime.

Purge me with hyssop, wash me with stone. I shall be clean. I shall be whiter than the snow.