Home, where houses flicker like candleflames
or tufts of hay each topped by flames of stars
among the winding roads bereft of cars,
in the dark hour of the darkest shames,
to brighten with God's promise all the lanes,
and the cool prick of summer's serpent rains
that cloak the town in icy brash recall,
draped aspirations of the school play shawl
fall on the mantel, now where no one sees
the severing bonds of filial pieties.
Hearts linger where the words impress the light
that lights the word, no fury can be heard
to drench rain where the savior last appeared,
and all is pillows, trees, despair, and night.

The little cafe by the tiny river,
the deer park at the university
which from your bedroom window you can see,
the ghosts of Christmas plays upon the mantel,
your mother's boring glare which you could handle;
fumbling in the driveway with the keys,
then back upon the highway as we please,
each world returning to each separate liver.
I follow you about the neighborhood,
the wrought iron railings, overgrowing wood,
trying to bring you love and bring you solace,
while each dark thought will come and take its place,
grappling with God through nights and days,
while language waits for what you have to tell us.