Shakespearean Sonnet

it is mercy, a gentle rain that falls
from my mouth when I see you, that lets
me look at you, and hold you close in all
your hateful things you wrought and spent.

a battle: I will not say the things I think
to say. Here, at first sight it is hate,
not grace, but of grace I choose to drink.
I choose to not explode. I choose to wait.

and in the quiet mastery of my will
I am crying, aware how close I was
to destroying, yet may reach it still,
but for mercy falling upon us.

I am thirsty, always, under everything,
I thirst for justice, but really, for mercy.

for bishop desmond tutu

Italian Sonnet

the auction room floor, thick with old dust
stirred up on Saturday by farmers, men
who know a deal when they see one, then
let a grin rest on their cracked lips and trust
that the die grinder works despite the rust.
the man with the pipe stops, looks again
through vanilla smoke to the dim dead-end
through the chaos, through the auction room dust.

what this farmer sees is not up for sale
so he shuffles, creeps into the dark
the man reaches back and steals the art
to hang in his kitchen and tell a tale
with oil daubs whispering thief and liar
he thinks he's glad he obeyed desire…