Inwood, New York, September 1957

On a back porch in partially eclipsed light
a little boy is playing with a wounded chipmunk
who sits trembling in a clay bowl on broken haunches
licking his paws as the sun is blotted out.
The little boy puts oatmeal and baby oil
into the bowl; soothing things. He'd put salt
to cleanse the wounds but he doesn't have the stomach
or the sternness to be a healer.

The chipmunk's cheeks twitch but it suffers quietly.
A car's tire caught it running.
The boy's face is grave as he gently splashes water
trying to wash the pain out of the little animal.
The chipmunk's face is really a face for the first time;
he looks humanly worried.
The water is pink with blood, not dark
with the gush of the heart.
But the legs may have to come off when Dad gets home.
Mom is slipping into another dimension.

Flames of fall lick the edges of the porch.
A green and orange fire crashes on the steps.
A sinew comes apart in both; the chipmunk
breathes heavier and the boy's breathe corresponds.
Scared teeth nip stigmata into five-year-old hands.
The sun goes purple-white and dims on their interaction.
From overlapping discs (the world is smaller than that touch)
the holy spirit pours down into this.