A stifling heat—the air heavy—
and all around the loud, wet forest
knotting the gaps in its own sound.
A peace long earned, then broken;
and you, far off in the hospice bed.
Silk cotton, strangler fig
fastened here on the temple
as though it grew down from heaven,
was sent to hold in place
all this human work. And later,
through the house of fire, the fallen
galleries, I climbed in blue smoke
to where the god sat
ringed with incense. And yes,
I knelt to her. And yes, I prayed
through unbelief. Perhaps now,
father, only something old
and impossible can save us.