Monday, January 18, 2016


Divide infinity as many times as you like
Each part is infinite still, so that a saint
Having a portion of God's infinite power
Has herself such power, though perhaps
A somewhat smaller version which she can hide
In her sleeve or a cloisonné pillbox.
To cross the line between real and fictitious
In either direction, is easy as thought
And some saints I know do so frequently
Waking up spurious, dining as real,
And going to bed as the suspect offspring
Of a smalltime god and a scribal error.

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