Thy Will not Mine
Grace was weighted upon
By many books, stacked
In disarray,
showing just angles.
From memory: a Carvaggio
Angel, presenting conception
To a child unwed.
In presentation, the true weight
Of the universe penetrated
This virgin most pure.
She knew beyond years
That no amount of words
Laws, or skeptical husband
Would betray this moment.
All this mind you
From a stack of books
Waiting to be packed in storage.
Walker Evans said, "Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long."
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