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.