a terminus to cancer and its fears.
and love, my head has shed all trace of grey.
and Daily Mass equips me for my end,
is a mere foothill from infinity.
Clasped in each other’s arms some nights we roll.
Surely he was an honest man.
its holy font after I pass.
with prefigurement, for only
our fast promises requited.
revolving as I hunt these leafless trees.
From me he learned true love of poetry.