Modicums, only modicums
Perhaps a weary transparency, too,
And a sprinkled angel’s voice
Raining onto an orphan village
Put in a line at the last minute,
Perhaps a sail-boat in a sluice
Trapped and always returning
Or a flag mistakenly draped over a table
Stained by you with hot conscience.
Perhaps all of the above and nothing else,
Perhaps a face full of words, really
A face full of hands
And perhaps it shows to be kind.
