Daniel C. Remein

letter to julian of norwich about last night’s visitors

first friday in lent
she takes off his clothes—i too am glad
to be with them.  (they show up with a basket of fish from downtown) we are
               the faithful, we are
                              power, we are producing
barrels and barrels of wine,
the humors
               that rise from the liver to produce
                                                           the choleric state.

over a selection of cheeses and a discussion of wheels
i quote chaucer’s boece: i torne the whirlinge wheel with the torninge cercle—to mark myself in my pains— swych
is my strengthe, and this pley i pleye
.  he looks up at her touching me and asks, a ruse, if i like reading
robert frost
                i say sure a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird
               he says i wear highway dust. she says sexy people
wear banana republic pants
. so there is this turning and turning
                                                           and no way to gauge and nothing to be done

so i hand him an encyclical
                (the church:

—he responds, he paints goldenrod onto her belly
                              in egg tempera.
                    then what we’ve all been waiting for,
look she says the goldenrod is growing right up out of my belly
                and this makes me worried. makes me jealous. makes me glad to be with them  makes me want
                 makes me            makes me,  makes me         makes me want makes me
shuffle the curtains of the tiny window
                              so the light penetrates his gaze, so all

he sees is a baleen mouth of faith
in the serious unbelief of reading and a series of glyphs to explain
                                                                                        (whale-fat, a well-forged sword, a
hole in every elk whose eyes are flashlight pools, are
                                            my queer friends shoreline and desire).

then i have nothing left to un-believe so i come on strong, come on
                moralizing: i say our eyes, see, succeed— push out pliant beams—

the rooms we choose to enter finesse wet bodies fresh
                from splintered timbers.

our eyes filter light on a basic principle, a principle hidden within this charm:
                                                                                        (whale, peacemaker, wound, wound, wound

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