Dear Mr. Logan,

Please consider my poem, "Eleven,"
for publication in (A Brilliant) Record Magazine.
Thanks for your time.

Matt Caliri

Eleven

O Father Of Mercy
Wash out this grief you shower
Over me and the land,

Ring out the spirit
And Saturday our love's weeks
Like light through locked twigs,

Beyond the puddled boy
Crying in vain for solace
Sung all about him

With worried weather,
Arise in your emptiness
Head-high like the sun.

Stars are for darkness.
May each night blanket blessings
Down Heart's corridor

And the floors of joy
Shift shapelessly through lives
Like mud on apples

In a woven dreamland,
Floating as God's single thought,
Making rich your harmony

As the cross flies off
And the Bible loads squirt guns
And "grace" replaces "debt"

Replaces tongue and
Speech in swirling compassion
Viewed from your own chair

You made from pictures
And lightbulbs and fake noses
And dusty open cheer

Up! The baby smiles
Your world of grief has shattered.
Light has pierced the dark.