by Angie Estes

    How many in a field

    of wheat， and to whom

    do they belong？ O death， O

    grave， Bright star， thou bleeding piece

    of earth， thou shouldst be

    living at this hour， world without

    synonym¹， amen. But I

    digress， turn away like Giotto's

    contrapposto Christ， apostle

    of contrecoeur-nothing like the cardinal²

    calling this morning， the third

    fifty-degree day at the end

    of December， to his cinnamon

    mate. The headline says， "Pope Calls

    Cardinals³ to Rome." But will they

    come？ It is written above-superscript， sign，

    omission-a gentle tender insinuation

    that makes it very difficult to definitely

    decide to do without it. One does

    do without it， I

    do， I mostly always do， but

    I cannot deny that from time

    to time I feel myself

    having regrets and from time to

    time I put it in. This do in remembrance

    of me， your only wick

    to light. For where two

    or three are gathered in

    my name， like snow in April， lid

    on a coffin⁴， ice on the lake， I'll come

    between you and yours； I give you

    my word.

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