often i heard her
under her breath say, father forgive them.
but she had fallen to disbelief
caught black sails in an internal wind.

and never had there been a night so long
or beautifully still as the small cross
laid on her breast as she looked up
to whisper a silent te deum.

to my ear it was weak.  
a thin fabric over the real.
she asked, who are we
among this scattered dust
wandering among the forest and hills,
to think we are more important
in the enameled blackened night
than the winded stars?

that vulnerability is a place to
fall through, drop lower from.
where are we in the harried minutes
between the rising of day, the density of sleep,
wishing as pretenders in the garden?

finding what is broken,
things to be repaired,  
should we ask the rounded questions
while around us elevated to disbelief
garish in speech and gesture, our gods fail us?