The Misfortunes of the Good
Now hereafter is consigned to the page again,
Not the white world held in glazed, glancing
Light along long-worn pews. Rustling into seats
As a refrain hollows out itself now among
More or less still bodies, all quieting in deference
To a single voice rising from the front.
The voice tells of the Power that says
Who has lived whichever kind of life is sorted out
On a one-by-one basis. And, this is done as we are each
Alone. But, then again, here we all are, waiting for Word.
In the dark, however, sometimes as crickets and other night
Sounds falling down to us as we are—then, as we fall
Asleep once more against our will for all yet to be done
And in the face of much great silence that is sorrow,
Its depths unplumbed—if then permitted we turn, page like,
Against ourselves, admit the greater dark, who can say
What burden is not dispelled.