this mortal light

But he gets it wrong.  Says the

poems are supposed to mean

something, are supposed to have

weight and depth, when all they

really are is another form of

bleeding.  The fist you fear isn’t

the fist of God.  The names of

your children sound hollow when

you speak them out loud, like the

bones of birds, like bottomless

wells.  Jump in.  Look upwards,

back to where you began.  Let

the prayer come naturally.