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
synonym, amen. But I
digress, turn away like Giotto’s
contrapposto Christ, apostle
of contrecoeur—nothing like the cardinal 
calling this morning, the third 
fifty-degree day at the end 
of December, to his cinnamon 
mate. The headline says, "Pope Calls 
Cardinals 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 coffin, ice on the lake, I’ll come
between you and yours; I give you
my word.