He spread himself remedial,
confused by words of power,
told to hate, and
told to bounce back,
bruised and bare against
Saint Martin's ugly
stained-glass
face-crack.

This was love;
there were lovers.

But instead of dying
patiently and piously,
like father's dad before,
he stuck his needle
of a finger
through the gospel of a bullet,
and forgot to
lock the door.