There's a certain congestion of light,
say saffron running to ochre down the Umbrian Hills,
refractive of more complicated palettes:
say the kids' tuition, your wife's
lover, that sketchy colonoscopy.
The pigmentation of Dubuque.
Lord, you would say--
if such address were possible--
the defects of others
that mine be blinked away
in the nova of Your righteousness.
it's mostly a grope:
you believing in me,
me making things up, say:
--Miles Wilson, here