THE CHILDHOOD OF ST. THOMAS

Three-quarters now of waning moon,

                                                                  cold, late summer sky.

Over the broken promises of the day, the nun

Spreads out her wimple and starry cape.

Whose childhood could hold such purity,

                                               such fire-blown eyelids of the dead?

It is a wound that cannot be touched.

Even by either hand of St. Thomas.

                                                              Wish him well.

His supper was not holy, his gesture not sinless.

May ours be equal to his,

                                             whatever sky we live under.