And what will you do when your doubt
wakes you in the middle of the night—
you’re sleeping off a double-shift—
and you must wrestle it to earth,
as you wrestled all day
the machinery of your life,
forcing the embodiment of all
you hold holy to say uncle.

You have beaten me,
your doubt may soon whisper,
in a plea to let it, finally sleep.
But there is the sun slipping
from a forest of clouds.
The angel in your hands
has become a pillow,
the day a bright stone.