nathan lipps

Concerning the Approaching Temple of St. Thomas


The knife and the lamb. But not the son. The father

without the word. A bird lost of wing, but not of song.

Of song there is plenty. But no mass for the density of waves.


And waves of lovers attending a new mass.

With the word, but not the knife.

The father and the son, but not the bread.

And they leave starving at the door.


When it rains heavily there is the warmth of confusion

and a prayer for sun to blind. Blessedly. But not for sight.


The sight of the lamb before the final knife. Not of death

but of death in action. And we understand not because it is

but by force of will. The son loses himself in the briar

                        and there is no bread. But hunger. A dulled blade. A collapsing wave.










Why We Go Apple Picking


Is there no better way

to say we are alone.

That we breathe in air

and choose the solitary bed

despite the loud quiver of tongue?


Though we have never met

and our tones are dissimilar

the frost that wakes us at night

is our shared blanket.

You may say strawberries in June

and mean I am awake and waiting.

And hearing your tone at night.

The echo of your own tone.

I speak of the highway

and mean the masking of a familiar scent.


It is true that the consummate night

is a multiplicity of echoes

congealing into a too much

sense of awareness.

Not of you and I.

But of ourselves.

Of the yawning distance within

ourselves.

And each touch that says love,

the warmth of more blood,

meaning convince me that I do not exist.

That I do not have to worry about any of that.