everything is off and I am the snow bombed a job interview and saw a dead finch next to the bus stop almost cried for what Ginsberg called “the soul of the world” or Merton’s agonia fine the Metra is late which is okay with me because I feel clear and clean as the rain that’s mixing with the snow I look down the road and see the bus in the distance and remember how I’m always waiting for the next thing my father died when I was sixteen and then again when I was twenty- three as the flakes swarm all Fibonacci and I open Kant’s Logic for the last time
Sonnet [I used to write lines about it raining]
I used to write lines about it raining far inside the body or about pain as the shadowed insides of a pine tree but now refuse to write such things as speaking of rain inside the body is poetry and poetry just like theology must never be itself if it is ever going to point to something else successfully and so I ask what is a successful question anyway I ask myself questions like was he holding an invisible rifle or was he just clutching his heart waiting as a child in the doorway to speak
Sonnet [god's violence held to the diving bell as]
god’s violence held to the diving bell as snow fell onto the upside-down bowl of your body through the window I be- held a sudden bird of sunlight a sudden fox of fire skimming the earth’s surface below the downfall of leaf-spires spinning invisibly drawing Fibonacci sequences in the air as your hair moves in patterns unknown to even the bright- est theologians I touch your small hands and watch you stand as one dimension or another among the others the falling flakes the elements and the cars the people passing us in the wake of which I wake
-- Anthony Opal lives in Chicago where he is chapbook review editor for TriQuarterly Online and a grad student at Northwestern University. His poems have most recently appeared in Boston Review, Notre Dame Review, Harpur Palate, Permafrost, and The Greensboro Review.