Bakery girl,
what will rid us of your sadness?
You’ve carried it and still,
and I as well,
as bells have tolled
and dusks have walled
alleys away in silence.
Bakery girl,
what will rid us of your sadness?
You’ve carried it and still,
and I as well,
as bells have tolled
and dusks have walled
alleys away in silence.

Is there an icon of eyes
of the dove
wings wide
just above the shoulder –
and of in the eyes
that branch
buried in the heart of Jesus?
Not to myself, just dying



Yes it made sense: you made sense of it.
You slept with and solved every problem,
etching equations in glass verified
by daylight and the empty space beside you.
The night was your cloudy mind projected –
against it you appointed pointless sticks
to a pointless fire –
your altar to you, but you did it because
you could.

