Between the moment his head hit the pillow and
the dew sneaking across the willows,
the faintest finger of god surged down
to smudge every past-dwelling lens.
Sweeter than cyanide, sweeter than lead,
he arose as a fungus erupts from the dead
no longer concerned with the churning earth
under three tall pines in the Fairfield park,
where last he left eyes as cold as mother’s
and an alphabetized list of all the others.
He kept his course to the gates of Hell
and the grocers and clerks could never tell
the truth of him, but all the same,
a guiltless man brings guiltless pain.