They gather under
the steeple, beneath
spire and holy cross,

when I run past on
Sunday mornings
especially when

it's sunny with
leaves budding
I think of lifting

the preacher's wife's
dress to her waist,
her eyes glued

to the sky.

Eager necked wrap of linen,
You bag of stones you.
Pasted on, you struggle
Above standing water.

The last one through
The door, saintly headed you
Flap out into the cold.

The last, the lost, we two.

Still

And
Strangely so
It seems

As if
the splendid
Earth lay wait

Inert
in barefoot,
open-door
propensity
suspended


Then to
this end abide
by quiet rules

Take mind to ****
the unintended
word that turns
through all of this

But know

I miss you

Still