Sunday, June 11, 2017

The Night Batman Died, We Talked

The night Batman died, we talked.
You told me that the boulder
that stood between us had been removed
and had left a hole and you fell in.
You could not see out.
Long ago, I found you sitting in Saint Paul’s
in front of the statue
of my patroness, Saint Therese.
You said you were cold
after marching in the streets of Paris
against the war in Iraq.
You live in that church now.
I always doubted your agnosticism.
You once gave me a small, blank notebook.
I scribble in it. We are not alone.
You broke the spell.