Eutychus slept propped on the window sill
Because the seats were taken, over-tired
With so much thinking, so much listening,
And Paul talked on and on. The room was full
Of words that ceased to sting and only droned
Like summer bees among his father's corn.
The lamplight flickered and the night grew chill
And Eutychus went tumbling from the sill.
Perhaps the mind can only hold so much
Before it closes in upon itself.
Such talk of love, forgiveness, charity,
A man could grapple with and half-believe,
But resurrection—that unlikely word
Which kept the elders fastened to their chairs—
Might well befuddle one who had but come
To while away an hour and then go home.