Time's lust for passing

(This precision of harmonic movement,
this evidence of Natural Law’s definitive composition
Always already
our model for propagation--
is, therein, our grace,
is our god

Yet because nature thrives where grace meets efficacy,
we may make an art of this life)


          A cast iron bell wears a Sunday dusk,
          wears condensation from evening showers laid down impartially
          Drips cling from hinge to lip

          His brim is met at earth’s turn by Evening,
          whose gown, unwinding, settles down about the churchyard arms
            He welcomes her, she now decent in all her bareness,
            and bows a gasp into mutual darkness


(Each who is sentient may be reminded
that conception begins with an assertive torrent
  growing persuasive beneath her navel)


            Here swelters an appetite not unknown to June corners,
              such behavior at such hours—
              Unswollen swelling tome
              A chimely moan resonates,
            penetrates a modest bit of quiet night

              Time’s lust can will a night to fall to weeping


(Transience concedes to this--
a few gracious holy thrusts

That which evolves, recedes
A timepiece, still beating, slips between his knees)