LITMIR.BIZ

      My Barefoot Rank

      Copyright © 2017 David Craig. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-3316-4

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-3318-8

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-3317-1

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      “Francis was so small

      it was almost like you could hold him

      in your hand; all of them—they seemed

      to act out their own stories, playing themselves:

      feeding the hungry, covering the sick.

      But for whose benefit, that’s

      what I want to know? And who

      were the grown ups here anyway?

      How were we supposed to take this?

      And the crèche, wasn’t that the same deal:

      life imitating itself? And that little church

      he built, so small it could’ve been stuffed

      with dolls or keepsakes? What kind

      of lives were these, and why

      were these guys so darned accessible?

      Were we supposed to shrink down,

      fit inside smaller doors; are we supposed

      to become some fraction of ourselves?

      Would that leave more room for others

      in the world? Would we all then come

      closer to the part of us that’s real?

      Is the absurdity of this drama

      supposed to make us laugh at ourselves,

      recognize ourselves—again. And how

      would that experience sustain itself?

      In memory perhaps, one we can’t escape?”

      We are cars on golden blocks

      future flowers—a field we haven’t come to.

      Days there are always what they are:

      blue; the sun, colored chalk on the sidewalk.

      We’ll be finished—but won’t be, not really.

      There will be so much to fill us in on,

      so much of the new; everything but the next day,

      dandelion spores discoursing expansively

      on the fundamentals of the universe.

      There will be smiles from someone you

      might have known. Socrates will fill you in,

      his life at fifteen—in other words, things will be

      just as they are now—only you will hear

      what words mean: each loaded, like Keats’s fruit;

      that ceiling, still as it was in 1821—but transformed.

      You’ll be able to sit better Steps.

      Apples will offer hardier apples,

      his chamber music opening as it always has,

      into something else—the cross,

      which makes everything clear.

      Fall is here before the leaves know it

      but the foliage has no time for abstractions,

      absorbing heat, sequestering, conspiring,

      each vestige twisting in the wind.

      They scrape against every new name

      as they descend, trying to understand

      what is happening in the world.

      Water is their game, their long epitaph.

      Stars are their residence.

      Stolid, these trees are libraries, books—

      as are the snails, the chained dog next door,

      yapping in protest.

      They all bow, stand against us, housing

      our temporal lives.

      This is why we push. This is why we define

      ourselves and take their spaces for our own.

      This is why we rage through our seven-year skins—

      because we don’t live here forever, want to.

      Each person struggles in a battle he can’t win,

      sets himself against his planted grass, cuts it

      every other Saturday, our angst against what is.

      It’s a thin hand

      that reaches up into the air—

      a daughter’s, a great grace

      that makes its turn above the soil:

      just a hand, no rings, no polished nails.

      The accompanying voice is quiet,

      like the trees.

      What Jesus offers is out of time.

      If we were saints, none of this would be new.

      It would all be kindling: yesterday.

      Today would be a canvas—even

      the alphabet. You might go anywhere,

      take a left and never be heard from again.

      Not that the people in that place

      would care. There, trellised flowers

      find the ground, fresh green.

      The world is a sandbox.

      Everyone puts out a folding chair

      just to watch the sun set. A paintbrush

      could make the rounds for years

      without ever finding a table.

      The world is a large eye—

      its blinking moves you to the margins.

      This is where you’ve always lived.

      A young woman could live there, too.

      Silence is old, it’s Scandinavian

      snow, the heat of an outdoor sauna—

      cigar sweat, good liquor. The nearby rocks

      collude; though those farther off

      choose

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