Making It Again

There’s no mistake in a child’s clear paper world, all errings

Are erasable: She shreds a year and mutters; it’s just numbers

Same as I bleed the blue from yesterday’s witnessing clouds

Putting distemper in memory, leaving tryst-grounds in chaos

Empty playgrounds are lures when love is done, its

Bud of grace quarter eaten by the price we pay surely

A slammed door - another’s name – wanderlusting . . .

Absence becomes the now place where the other lives alone

I invoke my fever in the creaking of swings, thinking

Of Christ. But she’s gone to the devil and He, creation

By creation, undoes the deed of our Father’s amen

Leaving us as children, a mistaken affair erased.