and deciding to sleep in,
let the brothers pray far below
in the ornate church of Saint Isidore,
his liftoff portrayed in dark colors
behind the altar, this levitating farmer—  

while I, sluggard, justify these extra hours
for last night’s restless ones. Now the gulls
mock me in the dawning blue over Rome,
listing in loud laments my sins,
my shortcomings, their calls
much like my father’s
obsession with
time, prompt
attention
to work—  

some impossible heights
I nevertheless hold
clutched in sheets
soaked with
remorse.