He stopped where
he stood, at the door of the
Sacristy, the
roomward side.
The moderate
chamber swung under the swinging
Lightbulb that he
had lightly brushed as he turned
Doorwise. He
clasped broad
Hands and bellowed
inwardly that it was a damn,
Damn, damn, damn
thirst to be situated so.
What fatherkind
was this,
That prickled out
galaxies in restless condescent?
That burbled the
names all other godmatter took
In his first
infant word?
That cupping his
hands, and waiting for the water
There to pool, and
narrowing them, watching how
The water rose
in kind,
Said “hosannah
canoe”?
Nothing
causelesser could be.
He took the hand
down out of
Its blighted
circling and saw it.
There were
liverspots riding on the front knuckles.
Solar lentigo.
The organ withers
before the candleflame,
He thought, and
all its boozy descant shudder,
And its
semblance in shadow,
The livlier soul,
leap, ragged rascal, out of the cage,
And set itself
more serious music up. “Hold me now,
While I am
lonely.”
His heavy baritone
rang against the windowcasing.
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