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Click hereThat always chilly waiting room
is left behind. Now can he cry
in warmth, in a less empty space,
though one lacking
some philosophy. No longer
is he rocked to sleep by Plato
or gruff Socrates. Now he sleeps
under his God's careful flannel—
though yet as dead and dully quiet
as under Augustine, when sentenced
that last time, in worldly antiquity.
He misses the womb, that bassinet
where he last was safe and loved.
But here, at least, he cries in warmth
and sometimes even cardinals are moved.
i mentioned this poem in the new poem review thread in the poetry forum - wildsweetone