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God was
Horses before the barn burned down.
Expired lights at night.
A pile of books in the clearing.
Bodies the next day.
I’m on my hands and knees
Again in the scalp
Of the wheat, looking for a fold
In the fields.
The scent of heavenly spheres
On the back of the wind-borne blight.
This living hides the seam of an inward
Other time.
Where buildings don’t collapse.
The people there
Rising from their desks
Throwing
Confetti out of windows,
Waving and smiling down at us.
Jose Perez Beduya’s poems have appeared in High Chair, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Ploughshares.
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Poetry
in your carpeted office you lay my life down / and say open up to that small room in my sternum.
In his new book, the former Fed chair cuts through economic orthodoxy on central banking. But he fails to reckon deeply with its political consequences.
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