Dear little Jesuit, half out of heaven,
Bent forward with the residue of earthly grief,
You won't do for an icon: you need to be propped up,
To be met partway. And your relics are incognito,
Snug with the bones of your puzzled brethren.

Have they wet sand where you are, crusted curds of mud,
Bosses of water, mosses studded with windsocks,
Bubbles singing in soda? Have they winter lilies
Like those I lay on the ledge above your name,
Bluebells not being commercially available?

Intercede for me and I'll intercede for you:
That's the deal. I slip you into the pocket
Behind my breastbone and dance secretly down the street,
Past perennials resting in rectangles like disciples
And grasses rushing the cracks in the concrete.