Whether he will or no, miracles
happen
In the vicinity of saints and so
with Jerome.
The patches on his clothes wait
until he sleeps
And sew themselves more firmly in
place.
Dogs, meaning to attack him, find
themselves
Apologizing in passable Latin and
slinking off
Bewildered. (Long afterwards they’ll
wake
Growling “Cave! Canis malum!”) Some nights
A cop who died in 1947 swings down
the Avenue
Leaving a dime and half a cheese
sandwich
Beside each homeless sleeper.
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