I.Job

I, Job, sat in my filth, but I knew there must be more:

the rotting flesh and the sickly warm stench,

the dead beasts, the burned children,

the earth-swallowed crops.

Three friends made sucking sounds when they saw me:

their despair groomed and inexorable,

formed into petrified thoughts

left among my wreckages.

I, creature, I, Job, heard the sound first, my eyes buried in my lap:

drops of stinging water hit next; out of the straining air

I heard the roaring of the Other, the Over-All-Others:

I, wounded animal, curled.

Images from the Voice filled my mind:

the great Leviathan, tamed, the great seas, untamed,

and the tiniest quark, the humble foundation required

for the making of a leaf.

I, nothing, I, Job, lifted my head and threw it back:

the wind lashed my cheeks, burned my eyes;

I sent my hands out, opened my chest to the Voice:

You, Whirlwind, whisper— 

Epictetus

Philosopher in rough goat’s wool,
staff shining and smooth,
on that rock, alongside the dusty path

leading along the bleached cliffs,

the olive-leaf compost under your bare feet,

disciples poised around, 

faces shadowed by swaying branches and, in turn,

enlightened in the dancing light of sun and sea;

they meditate, catching your wind-flowing words.

One, "pro-hai-re-sis," slips away, beyond.

The bodies of you, philosopher, and your disciples

become olive dust or heavy rain, or stars, wind-lost,

but now I whisper "pro-hai-re-sis" 

and you live, again, philosopher.