If faith is a tree that sorrow grows br and women, repentant or not, are swamps, br br a man who comes for solace here br will be up to his knees and slow br br getting out. A name can turn on anyone. br But say that a woman washes the dust br br from a stranger’s feet br and sits quite dry-eyed in front br br of her mirror at night. br The candle flame moves with her breath, as does br br the hand of the painter, who sees in the flame br his chance for virtuosity. She lets him leave br br her shoulder bare. br Bedlam’s distilled from a Mary too, br br St. Mary’s of Bethlehem, shelter br for all the afflicted and weak br br of mind. The donors conceived of as magi br no doubt. The mad and the newborn br br serve equally well for show. br A whore with a heart, the rich br br with a conscience, the keepers of language br and hospitals badly embarrassed at times br br by their charge. The mirror refuses br the candle, you see. And tears on another’s behalf br br are not br the mirrors he’s pleased to regard. br br Who loves his ironies buxom and grave br must hate the foolish water of her eyes.