Lois Moyles
NAMED LAZARUS
For four days h e drifted
in a human boat, knotted at both ends
to keep out the light.
And the sun was wasted.
And the rain was wasted.
Even death was wasted on Lazarus
that might have been instructive
somewhere else.
During that time
what furrowed the inward air was not eye,
more like arrow towards narrowed lids
and beyond.
He marked the walls
as the hopping chalk commanded.
He tapped on pipes but got no reply.
except the sounds of powders falling.
When halftimbered faces of mourners
collapsed around him
he cou ld not help them, because
the barely perceptible soul upwind of his body
could not support sunlight,
and because his old estate
was melting away like snow
that would not pack, would not hold his weight.
Then for some reason
the whole costly colony started up again–
became the heart's ideal again-
arrived at by rooted runner.
And his brain, piled like a rope in the dark.
apart from understanding,
was tugged forward.
Winebottle winds poured over his wounds,
