On his way to the synagogue, Simon
grabbed god’s cross and dragged it
across to Golgotha. No one knew
if the time was right. But after tea when
the sun, going home, threw
against the city walls three shadows
just like scarecrows in the night,
a night which climbed his stairs
with a lamp and a book of poems
in its black hand, and stood at his bed
enveloping him silently with the dead,
he grabbed the book and read a poem.
There was no meaning in it for him.
Simon: http://www.canopicpublishing.com/canopicjar/25/retsimon.htm