Psalm

Now the earth is titled
on the edge of night, I walk out
with my lantern like the messenger

of God. The fog wraps
the branches: ghost of field hangs
over the field, a drowned man

in pearls weeps under a bridge.
To each, I confess a secret.

Same weather last year, a glitch
in the workings, was the night
you took yourself to the water

and knelt. In white breath,
for the waters are come
unto my soul. Since then

a lifted hinge in the mind
and life came loose.
                                 Now, from the fog,

time’s small currency: iron coins,
iron water.

From the fog: coated horses, marsh-
grass; wings, fence-posts, the long
suffering bodies of trees.