It's been a long day. I was up at 3:45 this morning to drive my daughter to school. I went to work. Went to a concert by a chorale group. Now, I'm watching Jimmy Fallon and staring at my phone, willing it to ring. I have a feeling that bus is going to be pulling into the school parking lot around 3 a.m.
Saint Marty needs a little poetry to stay awake.
from Ellen Bryant Voigt's Kyrie
I always thought she ought to have an angel.
There's one I saw a picture of, smooth white,
the wings like bolts of silk, breasts like a girl's--
like hers--eyebrows. all of it. For years
I put away a little every year,
but her family was shamed by the bare grave,
and hadn't they blamed me for everything,
so now she has a cross. Crude, rigid, nothing
human on it, flat dead tree on the hill,
it's what you see for miles, it's all I see.
Symbol of hope, the priest said, clearing his throat,
and the rain came down and washed the formal flowers.
I guess he thinks that dusk is just like dawn.
I guess he had forgot about the nails.
|Ring, damn you! Ring!|
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