Peter Cooley

Another morning for the death of God.
Another evening for the death of God.
Time, place, duration, season, all transposable,
the dead Christ hangs in agony, haloed,
...

A hundred years from now we’ll all be dead.
Meanwhile, let’s be this mayfly in my room whose
whole life span contracts into today.

Where will I be when I confront the dark
the stars have lived in for millennia?

I’m no ascetic, I love what I call
earthly paradise, the vegetable stand...

Sometimes, certain mornings, we are born again,
our feet traveling the floor new feet, new floor,
our windows watching us as we cat-stretch, all new

What would you choose? I’d like eternal life
such as the dandelions aspire to
across my lawn this morning. They will shine
all day in my imagination while they rise,...

Hewn from some polar
air they make us breathe
just to look on here,
they appear doubles,
Michelangelo,
son, mother, one death,

Just as I came out of the Gallery,
I saw a gull among hoards of tourists
encircling the statue of Lord Nelson,
crazed while I prayed he'd make it out, resume...

Since I can't pay my tribute to the sun
like citizens in the Roman Empire,
especially that old ragtag Nazareth
where things happened and are progressing here...

Chosen to be passed over by this wind
although I'm still inside, the hurricane
breaking down as it comes ashore, I pray
next time I'll find my way to pray again!...

To be open to receive the spirit.
Easily said: just writing down these words.
But it may not come as we would have it
in some Byzantine icon of the Christ,...