Matthew 6:28—Sonnets

Two doors in the snow:

two men in

excess. Beauty, they

restrain, like

a grave. Its ghost, cold

and falling.

I was looking for

meaning, too.

I found a sidewalk:

more doors laid

like planks. A vulture

starving for

light, I found a knife

I sank in-

to the white, soft wage:

an angel

carved in his image.

Arrested

by the path, knife wet

with glimmer,

weapon left in snow—

I felt his

chest like a trapdoor.

The inmates

carry themselves up

in bouquets.

In the closets, fields

of lilies.