More than once
in my life death
united me to someone or something otherwise not.
We started going to the Episcopal Church because they
(Ron and Betsy, his parents) had asked me to read a poem
for Nathaniel whom Beth had taken care of
who died in the NICU at 10 months
rare a poem about beacons something
about the light in his eyes.
And now through the threadbare thread of Raymond Davidson
there's Father Luke
and his delicious confessions.
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1 comment:
Filthy Jones? I guess we all have them, like skeletons rattling around in the closet.
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