St Saint
Even my dreams won’t reveal you,
though the hand wants its scepter.
Instead, the sublimity of backdrop,
All Hallows, solemn close of paschal cabinets,
wounded stare, the all-out decking of box stores.
Fa la la, la la. O beloved departed, la-la, la-la,
obligate me, after work, a long day in a body,
passing beneath blooded lintels, maples, red oaks —
interpreters, I might be so bold to call them —
to sing in sacrifice, from century to century.
Your story is not mine, of course,
to tell. But the world is ingot-cast
cinders now & this hour already a beyond.
What weary head doesn’t crave its nimbus?
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SELECTED FOR
September 5, 2011 Verse Daily
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