What small provision can I make you?

Can I tell you I once believed God a being?

Some vast and eternal lover of men and despiser of women?

I kept the second idea deep within me and watched men from a distance.

I feel no tenderness even when I stumble upon the sign of peace

Within the Mass.

I see only a duty to acknowledge that sweetness exists

But not for this life.

The demons have been cast out of me numerous times, traveling the sands of hell.

When they’ve had enough, they return and give me the same.

The issue with me is want which turns into pain and I’m tired.

Yes, of causing pain no matter how often I try to talk only of the peace of rain

The cold of early spring, the heated colors of autumn, and

The ice formations along Superior’s shore.

Why can’t you love words, argue poetry, start with an event, move to place and

Grasp understanding?  The concept is not mine but that of medieval poetry

And courtly love which hides the attraction to edify the world and respect privacy.

One more time, one last time, come with me to see the ghosts of Huron,

Weep over the wrecks, feel the labor of silent men and women in a world

That doesn’t pretend to know, yet strives to understand.

I don’t know what else to do but gaze at stars, talk to God Who bewilders me

Yet woos me knowing I am still fighting isolation,

That hell will soon pass.