Angie Estes poem

Apostrophe

How many in a field
of wheat, and to whom
do they belong? O death, O
grave, Bright star, thou bleeding piece
of earth, thou shouldst be
living at this hour, world without
synonym, amen. But I
digress, turn away like Giotto's
contrapposto Christ, apostle
of contrecoeur—nothing like the cardinal
calling this morning, the third
fifty-degree day at the end
of December, to his cinnamon
mate. The headline says, "Pope Calls
Cardinals to Rome." But will they
come? It is written above—superscript, sign,
omission—a gentle tender insinuation
that makes it very difficult to definitely
decide to do without it. One does
do without it, I
do, I mostly always do, but
I cannot deny that from time
to time I feel myself
having regrets and from time to
time I put it in. This do in remembrance
of me, your only wick
to light. For where two
or three are gathered in
my name, like snow in April, lid
on a coffin, ice on the lake, I'll come
between you and yours; I give you
my word.