Cross

For a thousand nights

the men have shed

tears of startling terror

and light is failing

and they can’t see

a reason, not in death or life

and the cross on that hill

holds a candle

so as not to lose them.

They pray for themselves

then for the names beyond them,

so someone trying suicide

in the burning night

will see hope

blaze past like a shooting astral,

so she’ll give a small smile

to the ravisher who flips her off,

and men, here in their sinful prison,
can see life in each nailmark,
each unrelenting hammer
as a friend.