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
The pasty boy-flesh stark
against the weathered arms bearing you
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
into a waterless electric rain.
The Palladian arch framing the scene
contains my grief .
That’s how I know this is a dream.