St. Francis

A burlaped man came to take my pulse this afternoon

and share some of the abysmal blue water of his eyes with me,

pouring it into cups shaped like words,

lilac renunciations of a world too busy tracing its fingers

over brail highways and terracotta trash,

making maps for the eyeless, the frozen, the fetid amongst us-

he spoke of strong coffee and collection plates and a noose on Christmas day.

The fountain in my courtyard burbles a holy song

that I cannot hear when you are touching me

that is too quiet to announce itself in a crowded room.

But when you are gone it sings your praises,

a song long forgotten and recently remembered.