like a new species of orchid.
I held that Audubon open to the foreword
and read my parents' old prayers.
I found the volumes too heavy to carry,
so I tore out the Second Week of August.
And I kept my sins on paper napkins
at bedside for reference.
In the Fourth Week of December,
a bright carriage crossed downtown,
holding two beneath a warmth of white glow.
And the horse leaned forward up the hill.
Inside, I let a beer chill my palms
and had Christmas with the twelve
coarse patrons of pool and laughter.
The exit was my rebirth.
In midnight Mass the night before,
we groaned like the hull of a Roman galley.
We pulled forward in a heave,
and fought in darkness for the course.
I let the First, Second, and Third Weeks
of July fade into our movements.
But the cathedral's arcing routine
was no solace.
This year, I released all February
and September for a new joy and weight.
I let the pew, the bar, and my home persist—
I kept my fists calm.
Out of my sudden, broken calendar,
I unearthed a week of faith.
Out of my empty-handed work,
I wrestled in the wake.
