Dear little Jesuit, half out of heaven,
you won't do for an icon: you need to be propped up,
met partway. And your relics are incognito,
snug with the bones of your puzzled brethren.
Have they wet sand where you are, curds of mud,
bosses of water, mosses studded with windsocks,
bubbles singing in soda? Have they winter lilies
like those I've put on the ledge above your name,
bluebells not being commercially available?
Intercede for me, and I'll intercede for you.
It's a deal. I slip you into a pocket
behind my breastbone and dance secretly down the road,
Past perennials resting in rectangles like disciples
and grasses rushing the cracks in the concrete.