At the curb, standing
mere feet by grilled glass
that raised the high king
8 feet, 11 inches

billboard loitering as though
I lost my child weeping-wailing

temple. That was all.

But back the other way, my
St. Paul, my pyres,
tossled turrets and
the salvific few

Christ Sunday morning is difficult!
there’s only one a week
and wailing children one a week
and spires rung with incense and with song,
but one and only one a week.

i teetered off the brink
the fragile curb, i
sang “Trusty is the Lord our God,”
and stepped into the street

prayed i: