Panty Raid

It is 1974 and out the institutional open windows 
of the college dorm, nylon bikinis in floral prints 
are plummeting like the cheap bodies of birds. And then

your mother's large white briefs like a mainsail, like 
a flag of surrender, begin a slow dancing down current, 
cinematic, lithe. All of the faces
are turning up, hushed, like those
holding a hoop to save a child burning. It is the opposite

of being lifted into the sky
the way I imagined my grandfather ascending 
after the long pain of illness: this large pair of underpants 
falling forever on the startled face
of an undergraduate boy.

For Paula Snow


The Lord is my Arctic, my tube
nosed bird.  He hoppeth over
the surface of waters, my Jesus
bird who doth follow my ship.

He broods over cliff's edge, ponderous
over all of the penguins balancing
their eggs on their feet.

The Lord is my giant frigate bird.  I am
his limpet, krill, and his plankton.
He is the blue and the ever
in waking, blue
in the wake.