The Only Evidence of Night Faking Catholicism again I kneel at the open casket, blessing my bones with the cross, finger to forehead to sternum to shoulder, and the great-greatgrandfather (50 grandchildren!) unwrinkles himself, still with bifocals and hearing aids as if heaven needed hearing or he needed to collect condolences. When I drive back the summer heat splits the windshield for the lenses of the living, and the tree frogs angle upward in the road, barely making the sunset much less the curb, their voices collecting under tires as they silkscreen themselves to the street for the morning crows to collect them in their bellies along with shadows and detritus where everything that was the night converges. Bill Dubie |