3/1

Oh quaint and loving Jesu,
heal my battered wounds and morbid aphorisms.
Mend my fogged brain stem and stiff myocardium.
(I feel so hazy, like the white daisies
billowing on the hillsides--cloud-like.)
Ambivalent moodswings (perimenopausal, perhaps),
attract me to You like the chemotactically enamored
lymphocytes (with the immunogens).
Bless this bracketed heart,
Jesu--it's the soul of a nurse I must build
a rapport--a concord, a companionship.
(Perhaps a pedigree would clarify
the type of harmony I mean.)

I'm lost in the drizzle of the truth;
and it's more difficult to return
to the unlikeliness that is of You--Dear Jesu.