Holy Saturday

Between the cross and the broken tomb
there is only emptiness—
eternity of death and void

We look out upon the lawn
and note an ordinary light
lying in the grass and such
in an uninteresting way
without intensity or passion.
Still, there is comfort in this ordinary,
the Saturday doldrums of being:
the blade on throat is merely shaving,
the palm cups coffee, not a nail.
Everything is as it should be
as it was and always will be.
In this nice perfection cut loose
from what has been and what will be,
this day suffers not one nor hopes the other,
for there is no depth-descending agony,
just ordinary light on lawn,
the comfort of submission to what is
immediate and banal

Between the cross and the broken tomb
there is now the great day of nothingness
that reflects, is, our windless being—
the ordinary light upon the lawn
slays us while we blink