Beatitude

You might, in the holiest hour
of your life, allow a yearling bull
to nibble your hair and stroke
your brow with his hay-scented tongue,
And if he does these things, draw him close.
Let the tolerant wind of his nostrils
pray through your buttonholes.
Take off your mittens
and muss the crimps at the cliff
of his brow as the cold-weather
tear from his sagging eye
dries on its lash-blades; feed him
a tuft of mint and receive
the blessing of him
as he swings his neck’s beam
against your chest
with no force at all.

Because I Asked

If God were a small girl,
She would rest in my father’s lap
for five or six minutes after
each sponge bath;

and tuck the Buffalo nickel
back behind his warm ear
so he’ll know where it is.