leave your sentimentality with me.
i'll wrap it up like my own, rework it
until it is my own sorrow.

give the lightning struck tree
to the cross maker,
he'll even bear it himself.

tell him how it should be:
rugged and wild, twisted with vines
or smooth and modest, all the edges sanded
so as not to cause splinters.

he bears-
i.
i will bear
that cross to golgotha
without a complaint.
only murmur about how fine of a cross it is
and how pretty the soul is
that will hang upon it.

although i bear your cross for awhile
you must be nailed to it alone.
for i have other crosses to make
and drag through the city streets
for the other sad eyed thieves
and the revolutionaries
whose fire has gone out.