The Works of Keith Moul
A Modicum of Oxygen
As so many before me, I looked
closely at big-leafed maple veins.
Some fall early, even without
the strong winds of October, as those
with ordinary skills of observation
know. But I know something of flow,
in the veins, trapped by membranes,
circulating through sunlight, a riot
of expectancy, a modicum of oxygen,
an excess of carbon dioxide.
I have achieved what those
of scientific mind might call
the theoretical; a deduction
based on private, postulated
epiphany; derived from the physical,
but to my detractors, metaphysical.
I know also the risk of physical existence:
that breathing in is necessary to every life,
yet depending on who is ascendant in politics,
breathing out may be calculated as a crime.
Children at the Dreamscape
(Coming to Christ)
What had the children heard?
Some heard snorting, maybe beasts,
maybe men, even crying as though cut
by sharp knives, but with many echoes.
What had the children seen?
Some recalled shattered images:
white lights; birds and angels shivering;
stubborn, frightful beasts with horns.
Children would not describe the smells.
No one could know for certain
as the telling of events differed,
as children feared even kindly listeners.
On feast days; lonely before icons;
while fighting with crude siblings;
hiding behind bushes from mean neighbors;
children quit their need for senses.
Often their parents reward them with halos.