Bruce Beasley

the kingdom of god
is not usher’d in
with pomp and exclamations

No man, when he hath lighted a candle, covereth it with a vessel, or putteth it under
a bed; but setteth it on a candlestick, that they that enter in might see the light. For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest. —
Luke 8: 16–17


Soweth the sower

the swelled then
scarified then split
seed coat,

hillsides all furrowed and dunged:

and so troublous
matter arises.


And the seerstones pass over the tablets.
Weren’t you told yet to trance-
scribe your History as it comes?
Already bunched germ-shoots
just after the plough, these
volunteer creeplings:


Much crop will conceal the land.
Re-wet your quill, for the grain’s
tassels go shrivel-white.


Those who have have
taken from me, who Am
Not, who would not be.


These parables, these
gleanings from recondite
of the Kingdom, which
all the stories made
to tell them undermade.


The history of emergency starts within.
Like the wind, which is no more
than the shivering in the grain
its passing exposes.

These candles: you must
set them under your bed,
so their shadow-rips, wax-
hisses, their six sputtering
balefires lavish your un-
lovemaking and then

your spasms of sleep.