That he was still alive, he never doubted.
The heave and push of his pulse remained strong.
His eyes were aflame.
If he could only laugh,
he would fit his eyes inside a balloon,
so they could float over the countryside,
alive with spirits, and still—
still sing to the cathedrals
as they languished there under the sun;
still be fond of God even though
in all your confessions hating
only the sin and not God Himself,
and not yourself as the sun rose
and the roses rose—
each one an insufficiency
a finny thing, canned and creamed
and boiled and salted;
and still see the green boughs
of summer as they
become winter’s bare bouquet.
Can you see the circumference of
the tree? Can you see the light?