Easter

I sit in the soft breast
of a blue jay as it flutters
about, jumps, rests
in dry roses by the door.

A dusk of seasons has set
on those poor, never
watered roses, yet

they linger in death's antechambre,
the death of green things
cruel and patient as our own
to which our bloodbeat sings

obeisance while we sleep.
I nestle in the blue jay's breast
to hear its bloodsong's surge,
something no death may keep


Easter II

For Milton
 Christ had
set us
 free of
Death

An empty
 boast: Death's
teeth were
 perhaps slightly
dulled

Small matter
 when a
soul is
 soft as
sin

and thinner
 than the
tip of
 Death's long
claw