Many journalists, and not many friends

Around the encumbered tomb

Around the brilliant panoply

Beneath the dreadful moon

Many shattered bulbs, and men

Attend sepulchral cues

And when sepulchral rings the wind

The scattered glass will move

The motorcade and all its kin

Away from nascent mound

Will glide along like rivers

Like the dew upon the ground

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There are moments I remember that even the schools of crickets are multitudinous, and that waiting for the rain makes the sun too bright. I discover new shapes every day: green ones, gold ones, secret


Conversations with Jesus on the front porch. So many worries. That's true, he says. Everything moving by things I can't see. But perhaps, he says, you can. And under it all? You'll remember, he says.


I haven’t asked him for his number because now I am known, now the I-I-I am afraid, now I am up there on the raggedy cross with Christ: no longer unimaginable (so a little breathless), no number, no d