Thinnesses

Babel
Gathers up
in a lost man's
hymnbook of found things,
and drags its leaves,
its leavings

The way my
Frightened children
Come at night,
Little railyards,
Stumblings
Whispered
On edges
Of my Great Lake.

A man is given this old gift
And cannot help himself
But try
to give it back,

Grace
left to benevolent
strangers;
scraped
of spark:
hammered
into thinnesses
where God still is:

The shallow rivers;
The snow on banks;
the soaked socks
that weep on sticks
near the remembered fire.