Boy in Church

THE thing he sees
As Sunday lies communicant
Across his knees
(The Pekinese his mother’s, procrcant No more and barely growling)

—His heresy of window
Raised by blatant apple thieves,
Bloat bees,
And autumn mangy with the leaves
Of its unholy rolling —

Is just enough
To tilt the farther cartwheels in his eye;
Thus Jacob, tired:
Fleeing to find the escalating sky,
And only stars and a deep sleep falling.