Inwardly, something awaits me, and I can see it all
so clearly, so serenly, my thought not yet even conceived of . . .
the stained glass cracks from the latin laments
and I am lost, as I always was,
in the scarring of Eve
by her freedom.
The glass is stained by so much sadness, holding
so many parts of thousands of believers in its concrete and dust,
so many sins it was forsworn for trusting in. Yesterday
comes to me again, as I go to take forgiveness from the
black feathered dove; what he hands me not the flesh of the prophet,
but the skin of myself: what was left to wither,
and my own funeral, for heaven . . .