Lucky Gnarl

I am squinting with glee, half-wincing with elation,

walking down Olney Ave., up West Courtland,

I am rubbing a bump on my head, my lucky gnarl.

Whenever I caress it, the wrens explode into psalms,

the magnolias burst with grandiose white ideas,

and I start to see with the fiery not the stony eye of the sky.

I am walking arm in arm with the obstetrician

and mortician, along the two great edges, across D Street,

across Pine, the three of us gazing on children

at pasture, little goats butting heads like monks.

It is holiness I am talking about, the two deliverers and...