Years ago I thought I could
Despite my sloven self
But what could I?
Teaching is what poor men do
And I am no man
Like the one on the cross
The one in the doorway
The one who
Who…makes us clean
It is His voice I hear in the obscure words of bards and oracles
Remember either Nero or Vespasian
I lift my eyes to You, oh Rock my salvation
I fear all my edges are
Yet incompletely stained.
You know I believe
No squirrel should die
Where children play
Yet the little one lies with its arms folded as if
In prayer, so peaceful looking for a violent demise
Do you believe in it–Squirrel Heaven
Or have you jettisoned the eternal for once and all?
As though you could
As though you had the power to make yourself
Less than forever
I keep thinking of a comforter–masculine, nautical stripes
For sale, at a tenth of its original value
At the catholic resale shop
Catholic with a capital sea?
Unending waves of loss
Could I stop them with this Comforter?
How many capital sees does it take
To build a shelter for this child
I hold in my mind
Her grief and bewilderment
Not all blankets