I am soaking in Revelation, in the King James, just before dawn,
The dog snoring in his chair, everyone in the house sick and abed.
Perhaps this is a dangerous idea, reading Revelation before sunrise.
Perhaps I should absorb Revelation with a seat belt and a whiskey.
But there are cracks in the wild lines through which roaring music
Pours in: this saith he that holdeth the seven stars in his right hand,
I know thy works, and thy labour, and thy patience. These children,
Then, the angry one, the wheezing one, the one flying up and away,
You’ll keep them in your hand, the hand with the stars? You swear?
Remember therefore from whence thou art fallen and repent and do
The first works; or else I will come unto thee quickly, and remove . . .
No no—no need. I am on task: patience, dishes, laundry, insurance.
I read the fine print on the refinance. I know thy poverties, but thou
Art rich, and well I know that too, my old friend, well I know these
Tumultuous gifts, the woman with the cascading hair, I witness her,
The daughter here for seven seconds before rushing back to college,
I witness her, the sons battling to stay civil as they thrash to be men,
I witness them; I used to be them. He that hath an ear, let him hear.
You could take me back in your right hand this instant, and I would
Go laughing, yes I would. The immeasurable gift of loud high chaos.
I know thy works and charity and service and faith, and thy patience.
Yes. You dwelleth in them, the four of them moaning sick. Your eye
Is on the dog, the moist disgruntle of sparrows in the sheening dawn,
The heron like a paleozoic archangel against the swaying surf of firs.
I will give a new name written, which no man knoweth, save he who
Receiveth it, but I do know it and sing it, a name with the four words
Used for the gifts who are sleeping. He that hath an ear, let him hear.