I ate one of the eggs my daughter and her mother
colored and hid and found and put in a basket.
Hunting for them in the yard, with its first shock
of fresh early spring grass, the sky was not
pink, green, purple, or royal blue.
My daughter knew she would find each egg
and her mother wanted her to find them,
as it wasn't in my daughter's nature yet
to feel at a loss about hidden things or colors
or ask when will the iron angels sing.
Sabbath is a river that flows
every day but Sunday,
yet there is no rest
of its ferocious light
is its maximum possible velocity,
even in the spired
faculty of the soul
with all her longing and avidity.
Bitter in the belly
but honey in the mouth~
copious resin of experience~
are these cryptonyms, influentials.
Firmly rooted as dogwoods, as axioms,
each star casts about again
for more of its core to burn,
our sole garden is italicized
by crime, the first and last of things:
Justice is conflict,
not the other way around.