A Child, New Out of Limbo

That 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.