The Death of a Saint
I fell into the ravine when she died.
Small stream-eaten rock cleft I fell
and sopped burbling waters with a sweater sponge.
Knelt shy three inches from a poked-out eye
a scissor stick pointing that way,
no that way.
My feet are diviners, seeking obstruction,
roots and weeds, and blind-eyed I fell,
gasped at the shock tumble
with no giant brandied hound
to tug at my collar,
or lead me home.
