But most of all

the answer to all my questions
begins with a letter
(possibly 'a') to the pope,

and the point is the world
i think, or
not the universe -- perhaps
not dead

that 'anything' so knowable
so kind
so gentle when she cleans our bones

"God, is the postman,"
you tell me merely
human

in a large picture
framed over the crematory
"who is that?" i ask
you say
"i told you

God is the post man"

i am delivered
bone brushed and honest dead
-- the knowable love
of secrets whispered behind concrete sunshine --

i have no questions
only points of light twinkling
letters to friends
that have no syntax but hope
and the lovely grammar of an almost-dream

my answers are my bones
crinkling in forgotten dirt
the tears of amnesiac mountains

post script: conflict is not love
he is a hoary bully gnawing God's leg
on the way to the box

you say, the point
is always in the delivery.