I am in the foreground in mid-swoon, still reeling,
red cloak blowing in the sudden storm.
Darkness obscures the horizon and behind me

a construction site, men on a ladder, the fence
which became your cross – and behind the fence
a church spire. I have felt the sword which
I have always known
would pierce my heart.

The young corpse slung
over your father’s friend and namesake
is yours.

The pasty boy-flesh stark
against the weathered arms bearing you
is yours.

My women friends are all named Mary. They lean into
me, murmuring Aramaic consolations. Bent in sorrow,
they catch my fall.

A column of light pans the scene from
the Wyoming sky
above, bursts

into a waterless electric rain.
The Palladian arch framing the scene
contains my grief .

That’s how I know this is a dream.