Years ago I thought I could
Teach you
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

The
One
Who…makes us clean

It is His voice I hear in the obscure words of bards and oracles
Who will
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
Car…speed…human indifference…

Squirrel heaven.
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
Are comforters