With a Child

Look at us.  (Something does.) Smaller than life.
Much smaller.  A sudden wind blows
through the new leaves and they are gone;
time blows through your hair,
the river of the dead

whose name’s forgiveness, very
small, a blue vein
in your temple.  And the words
for these things are so terribly small;
and the world of those words

only slightly less mortal
than this instant of taking your hand,
of taking care to look both ways,
not to squeeze too hard. Or be too aware
that no such mercy will be proffered

by a world that has no need
of words, or us.  And in the meantime
here I am still, silently askingfor-what?  You guessed it.  Words,
my God, not in Your tongue; the way

the mad mutter to keep themselves company,
to keep themselves from thinking.  Words.  Once
they did to the world what love does!  Now,
to quiet and conceal my sorry terror,
they’re going to have to do.