Dream of the Rood

Blessed be my branches’ shadows,
sunsewn Mosesbaskets:
they ‘byed the Infant sleeping on the grass.

Blessed be my roots:
weaving the Boy a fine cradle,
they hovered Him just above Hell.

Yes, bring on the beautiful saw—
I will it. Dead
I will live forever.

Today my stillborn children sleep between a billion breasts,
& crusade-shattered splinters—
downed like so much autumn fruit—
doze glass-beneath from Rome & back again

and He is risen. He,
Carpenter’s Son. I,
Nativity of Rings.
Kite-Catcher.
Lynching Closet.
Ladder To Many Windows.