How many in a field
of wheat， and to whom
do they belong？ O death， O
grave， Bright star， thou bleeding piece
of earth， thou shouldst be
living at this hour， world without
synonym1， amen. But I
digress， turn away like Giotto's
contrapposto Christ， apostle
of contrecoeur-nothing like the cardinal2
calling this morning， the third
fifty-degree day at the end
of December， to his cinnamon
mate. The headline says， Pope Calls
Cardinals3 to Rome. But will they
come？ It is written above-superscript， sign，
omission-a gentle tender insinuation
that makes it very difficult to definitely
decide to do without it. One does
do without it， I
do， I mostly always do， but
I cannot deny that from time
to time I feel myself
having regrets and from time to
time I put it in. This do in remembrance
of me， your only wick
to light. For where two
or three are gathered in
my name， like snow in April， lid
on a coffin4， ice on the lake， I'll come
between you and yours； I give you
my word.
