There
are moments he forgets
He's
been translated into silence;
Things
that might become words
Stand
at a respectful distance
Waiting
for the crook of a finger
Or a
head nodded ever so slightly
Sometimes
morning discovers the ghost
Of a
crooked cop has left
Half a
sandwich and a small coin
Which
will not buy a glass of tea
Anywhere
on Seventh
Avenue.
Time
has made the lion and the saint
Unsure
which is which but no matter;
Go
ahead; ask for a miracle.
No comments:
Post a Comment