Nodding by the bed
Of her who bids me stay
Till she sleep again,
I lift my head and see
Upon the farther wall
Patches of torn lights—
Remnants of old swatches
From the ragman’s bag:
        Like this eve of holy day.

Moving bars of white
Draw across my eyes
From the train that pulls
The city through the night—
Past where I sit, stiff
With anger and restraint
At her whose fingers grip
Haven in my lap:
        At this eve of holy day.

This child of my election
Holds me to a posture
I chose but cannot alter.
God I have abandoned
And am impaled on love.
I dare not move or answer
These tatters on my wall.
The fear I feared is on me:
        And on this eve of holy day.



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