Agnus Dei

Must be a stumbler, bleeder,

as some floccus remains here, carded

into ragged sleeves by barbed wire.

I’d believe in a God who can learn

to work new spindles, new pupils

uncomprehending the reasons

light rosins in winter, and still

spill clumsily, bleeding.

Now drizzle caught

in oily pockets loads the fleece

with wealth. I’ve often wondered

what the fence keeps out

in a country bereft of predators.

I long ago reconciled

instinctive sympathy

for the perfect innocence of animals

with an equally ardent carnivory.

Arms retreat guilt-free

through the widest breach

in the garment, having chosen a meal

the stauncher faiths call impassible,

withdrawing to empty folds.

I hope you feel safe when you die.