Good.
Friday came and went without music,
the sky cracking, without thunder.
Even the long rains were missing;
they would have helped us invent
a memory of God dying, gratitude.
But there were no clouds, the sky
did not darken. Last year’s Friday
could not be recycled. How does one
remember a thing that happened
two thousand years ago, in another
culture, in another place, in a moment
when death was good?
Lovely, Nem!