Sunday morning, very bright, I read your book by colored light
That came in through the pretty window picture.
I visited some houses where they said that you were living
And they talked a lot about you
And they spoke about your giving.
They passed a basket with some envelopes;
I just had time to write a note
And all it said was I believe in you.
Passing conversations where they mentioned your existence
And the fact that you had been replaced by your assistants.
The discussion was theology,
And when they smiled and turned to me
All that I could say was I believe in you.
I visited your house again on christmas or thanksgiving
And a balded man said you were dead,
But the house would go on living.
He recited poetry and as he saw me stand to leave
He shook his head and said I'd never find you.
My mother used to dress me up,
And while my dad was sleeping
We would walk down to your house without speaking.