Pennies from Heaven

--John Blair

       

There it is again,

the secret art of random,

the hinges that make

a box a boxer

and back again, mire into

miracle. You have

wasted all your days

on this, waiting for causes

to emerge like hot

universes from

nothing much at all. We lie

down with lions and

become lions, teeth

and all until we have outlioned

the lions and sent

them grumpy-cat home

to await resurrection

or at least a good

meal. All your life you've

kept your clear eye on the ground,

watching for sudden

crevasses, coral

snakes, golden pennies dropped from

heaven. We lie down

with gods and become

needy. Would some manna be

so much to ask we

ask? A Dixie Cup

wax-brimmed with purple sangre

de Cristo before

bedtime, a few sweet

whispered nothings? We listen

to the wind for its

allusions, the stars

for eloquence. The fluent

harmonics of hope

rattle our bony

cages and every part of

every body hums

its own tuneless tune,

all frequency and flavor.

The best we can do

is make up the words

as we lie down with others

and become ourselves.