Ascension on Fire Island

No octopus-candelabra

        or baby Jesus adorns

the summerhouse we gather in

        to sing a hymn of forgiveness.

No church bells bronzed overhead

        ring and set our eager mob free

when the service is said.

        Only curtains in a strong wind,

billowing like spinnakers

        upon us, seem a godly sign,

or almost so. Sharp as a new pin,

        the day begins around us,

a speckled doe nibbling

        petunias as we pray,

an excess of elementals

        piloting us forward, like Polaris,

into the Gospel’s verbal cathedral.

        As when Jesus appeared

to the eleven while they sat at meat

        and upbraided them for their

unbelief and hardness of heart,

        our congregation seems unknowing

at first of goodness yet to come.

        Is there a god unvexed to protect us?

What pious group wouldn’t have it so!

        The floor creaks beneath us

like the hull of a ship,

        and the surf purrs in the distance,

confounding us with place,

        until a cardinal alights, twig-flexing,

anchoring us with his featherweight.

        Listen for the passing stillness …

In the harbor a man floats

        portside of his sloop, his purple

Windbreaker flashing in a sunburst.

        Let him be forgiven, this once,

who put him there. The family squabble,

        the bruised cranium, piece by piece,

will face up to light of day.

        And the body, its brief

unimmaculate youth, will be hoisted

        from the water’s patina of calm.

The nervous deer, the cardinal,

        our perfect citizen, even invisible

bells aloft press in upon us

        with sheltering mystery,

as in the distance a throng gathers

        and the yellow death-blanket unfolds.