Vexed. Elizabeth Poreba

      Little church fitted out in oak,

      a nutshell or reversed boat,

      small barque, four o’clock,

      autumn dark.

      He’s gone again,

      again he’s gone

      —toppled tree,

      comet pulled down,

      daily distress

      that asks no less

      than that we contrive

      to bring him back alive.

      Light wind frets the beams.

      A warped kneeler keens.

      Our silence could be prayer

      or mere reverie

      as we ply to renovation

      from catastrophe—

      rough reckoning,

      wide sea.

      Martin Burnham, 1959–2002

      Too poor, too tough—missionaries

      made bad hostages, but he kept them both.

      The expensive raid could not be repeated—

      besides, maintenance was easy.

      At night, chaining the husband to a tree

      passed for security,

      and even when his ribs ridged his filthy shirt,

      he could be trusted with the rice.

      Though his questions were annoying, in the end,

      the kidnapper himself wondered

      what kind of God guided the rescuer’s bullet

      straight to Martin’s heart.

      Village Church

      That bird like no bird and half a horse

      hold up the doorway and march to the curve of the arch.

      Someone said, Here—St. Martin,

      and maybe a pelican to fill up the space.

      Someone’s hands cut and hefted

      a sliver of limestone,

      A mason good at birds who emerged winter nights

      sooty with the brazier smoke.

      Someone selected colors for the scene that would be

      a village story for centuries.

      Then they left on a road later paved

      to bring me,

      fretted by the same north wind that took the paint,

      then most the rest.

      Who’s to tell what’s left?

      What was an idea

      is now just a suggestion,

      stone on the way back to what it came from.

      The Winchester Bible

      Filigree in foil, beasts

      done delicately, vine

      and blossom intricacy

      to the glory of God,

      by a king’s generosity,

      the first letter of each chapter

      done separately.

      Though scribes

      must adhere to accuracy,

      illluminators may surprise

      with nature transmogrified

      in colors from stones