William wore a hair shirt
somewhere around Italy,
shows you what I know about saints.
Little picture cards litter
the chaplain’s desk,
flowers and arrows pierce the heart.
A yard and B yard assemblies,
melting pot of hot heads
and maimed spirits.
We gather to pray here,
two or more
the math of heaven.
Just a closer walk;
the forgiven getting up,
time after time, doing time.
We leave one chair open
for who went before,
and who comes after.
Each lost sheep
makes a sound only
the Shepherd can hear.
good work, Will–I did many writing workshops in prisons–
the most motivated ‘students’ I ever had–