For St. Edmund Campion, etc.
They have painted my door jambs in purple,
and placed roses on my pillow.
My life is a splayed hand in a darkened den of thieves.
Time goes by, like the wind over a reed whistle,
and I sweat knowing a calm will come.
I ball up in self-pity.
Then the Vendée nuns, headless
in the land of the horseman,
flow into the gutter in a blood rain.
They sing as they go by.
Yours is a Wrigley stick wrapper martyrdom,
that gets caught in the grate
on streets whose heroics
This is too true.
It is to the right of my equal sign.
What a way to go.
What a thing to amount to.