All he knew of stars
in his gray asphalt neighborhood was broken glass.
The two-flat brick Chicago wall was his sacred writ.

    All will be well — all manner of things jagged,
    the mechanism, the empty, filled,
    the shattered made whole.

    All showings are visions. All visions, a blindness.

He ached all over. Never was a time he did not ache.
You can see it in the earliest photos. There,
in that one with the trolley in the background — see?

    All is not yet performed,
    not ended, even the far past.
    All echoes. All ripples on the face of the sea.

He was all shook up. Never settled.
All things must pass unless they don’t.
Nervous birdsong by the summer alley.

    All is calm. All is bright. All in all.
    All is story. All hands on deck.

He was named All Glory.
He was called Sorrowful Mystery.
He was a hidden prophecy riding the el.
He was a seed on dry concrete, waiting.

    All is said and done. All the way. By all means.
    One size fits all.

He read all the tales of steel and glass.
He studied their parables, pondered their lessons,
made notes in small handwriting in composition books
at a McDonald’s table after eating his Egg McMuffin.

Each word burned the page like a fire-tong on the lips.
He was a cloud of incense rising above the street grid.

It’s the same moon Chaucer
knew the rising of. It’s the
same lake Daniel Burnham
saw as living water, ever in
motion. It’s the same corner
where two grade-school
brothers stood for an Easter
photograph, and I am now
alone alive. It’s the same
bullet he apologized for, as
taught, that coursed an
explosion through his brain.
It’s the same Mother’s Day,
and I am happy still she too
is dead.

At the start, the leopard seal was formed
and the least weasel,
the raccoon, the stallion and all other creatures,
skeletons and skin.

Distances were set between celestial bodies,
speed and direction.
Rain fell.

Stone turned to dust.
Whirlwind battered the bloom.

Morning and evening, each day.

    Prophesy these bones, he said, dry with sand grit.
    Dine these bones, he said, and these sinews of stone.

    Cover yourself with noise, a shaking,
    with strong brass pieces at the wrists, ankles, neck.
    Stand like a cedar, legs like bars of iron.

I boast humble.
I magnify unashamed,
encamped on the righteous mountain, my wingspan.

I taste. I see. Hear:
The ears of young lions perk at the sound, hearken.

All my bones, none broken.

Fingered from clay, womb-fired, glaze-skinned,
nicked, chipped, scuffed, thundered —
spirit.

        Mountain gap, pilgrim crossing, pitched tent,
        overnight embers. Salt the lamb, salt the stew,
        for strangers on the border road, Sarah at tent
        flap, laughing. Wait dawn, listen for horn blast,
        plant mustard seed and journey. Thumb-cross
        forehead, lips, chest.

Vein of silver, iron of earth, brass molten,
flood darkness, wheat reaped, fowl flesh roasted —
innocence.

        In an immigrant apartment, my father born
        to an angry woman and a silent man, already
        old. Mary and Margaret asked the Lord for
        return of Lazarus. But my brother will not
        come back no matter who gets asked.

Wild field afire in afternoon shafts, dead fibers,
blooms, grasses, shells, soils, souls, bird skeletons,
bone-thick turds, pebbles, shards, prairie winds —
dirt.

        Eternal the grain, forever the koan.
        Arrow the lust. Weigh dust. Ever the go.

Branch of bloom, song of songs, true God,
palm psalm, blood mud, law of laws, celebration —
bread.

        Wild region, many bears, education defective,
        undistinguished families, mother died in
        tenth year. Enoch, Levi, Mordecai, Solomon, Abraham, and
        the like. Six feet, four inches
        nearly, lean in flesh, grey eyes, coarse black hair.

River-cut rock, weight of winds, depths speak,
honey-milk the prophet —
child.