(after reading Bonhoeffer's Letters & Papers)
I haven't yet felt--have you?-- the round-faced cherub in me nor in anyone who's left
louder eddies of his music, no, not for the longest time
or seen the bespectacled who besieges devils, stout and owlish, with sleeves tucked inside his palms & the coppery lips ranting on & on about real love,
(and not even the defender of cats in Aleppo, blessed be the brown palm! or even a Juan strapped to the bone could've calmed better my stormy heart)--
no, I haven't so much as imagined anyone in watered silk who comes close to this spotty pudgy saint crumpled in a corner, lover of misshapen nights & letters
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