The flesh is always trying
to pull a fast one.
The flesh is always dreaming up
some new scam.
The flesh is always eyeing
Time, to pick his pockets.
I’m the next mark.
The flesh is always weaseling
out of its obligations
like flab from a girdle.
The flesh is whistling
some sappy love song
hoping I’ll cave tearfully,
hoping I’ll take
the fetal position
on the living-room floor
and whimper till dawn comes.

straw-hatted weed-chewer
in oily overalls,
pawn shop rifle across his lap,

must mother it like a hen,
nestle on it
til it can hatch . . .

comfy in an aluminum canoe
pole cast out to a murk
where cold fusion happens,

where tadpoles
were never so seemingly alive
teeming like thoughts,

swimming everywhere
like the prospects
of unlimited dollars.

Hopes resurrect,
flower,
spread ether arms
to measure
the lengthening days, the joy,
flare
into dusks
offer no more
sacrificial apologies,
redeeming the time.

The will of God
stung like honey,
bittered the belly,
but then tranquil . . .
Storm and crow
have flown,
all color returned,
we believe, we know
the eternal version
is on its way.

*
For Deborah and Amy Hatch