How sad I am. How sad
this violation of the existential
given and Matthew's song —
another debt of this indecent
century — what is to be said
about this hideous traffic
in religion that has taught
blasphemy for centuries
against Jews, blacks, aboriginals,
women, Gypsies, and homosexuals
everywhere. 'They' put on Jesus-shoes.
He never wore them.
'Their' sacrifices to hate and hell.
There is no more to be said
about God, except the infinite exposure
of our finitude that 'they' have taught.
Love arrives as a promise.
Every particular love is Love,
dear Matthew. How love shatters
when they stopped your song —
the shatters in which we trust.
Yes, the philosopher said: The glorious body
cannot but be the mortal body itself.
What changes are not the things but their limits.
It is as if there hovered over them something
like a halo, a glory. Dear Matthew.

October 1998