I’ve talked of poetry beneath the summer stars.
I had a Form to take my pen.
I heard the Holy Ghost correct my spelling,
heard Him recommend Dante.
I have known the operation of the Blood of Christ
in conversation, at the kitchen table.
And I saw the sword protruding from the preacher’s mouth.
I’ve painted July suns in cerulean streams:
the colors all were water;
the brush, Kolinsky sable;
the paper, pressed by hand.
I smiled some simple smiles with noble women,
and a noble man, and children.
I have managed, on occasion, to live only by the mercy of a brother.
I’ve failed abjectly, and began again. And failed again. Began again.
I can clarify your thoughts.
I can confess my faults, and will append that list if you desire.