Who is deserving of all my love

(for Dovina) He said a little prayer when it was dark, although he'd not believed since he was young there was a God, or God like people say. And he didn't pray like timid people pray. But sometimes, coming home late under stark white streetlights, into darkness, and among the intermittent lamps along the park, and talking easy nonsense with his wife, he prayed to calm his nerves: if I am wrong and there is God and Hell, He cannot be more wise or just or merciful than me - who'd still forgive the meadow-fly who'd stung him in the field, the man who draws a knife along this place that's coming where it's dark. Or anyone on earth, and not require that he submit to save him from the fire. - All this he'd pray, then feel himself made strong, content if there's some netherworld, it's bare, and they were safe and potent and won't hark at noises in the shadows of the park or city-evening shapes that came along their path and glanced and passed without remark. And then it comes, a voice: My fellow! There is one you'd not forgive; for if you knew the pain you caused a girl once, blind and strong with lust, you'd not forgive yourself (though wed and worship her you might, my lad.) And may- -be this is fancy - such things are - and untrue, but watch: she'll flich if you reach to touch her hair - You see! You're damned already, boy! Now do you still believe We have to pardon you? - A three a.m., still warm, and all the park was live and dark with wind and summer pear and fence-entwining rustling scuppernong; he watched it from a bedroom chair and longed to not be afraid of darkness. Not be scared that they were, all of them, already dead. Then she awoke and called him back to bed. And feared him. God! he said, if I were young, I'd slip out of the house into that throng of fragrant magic places there. I'd tread fearless with youth, immortal, and among whatever doubts await me in the dark - And so he prayed, just half-knowing he prayed, long after the park turned commonplace with day.