Some saints spend so long in the field that at last
They're worn down, almost featureless, like spoons
With unreadable monograms and twisting handles
Which might be anything -- writhing Cupids, sleepy mermaids,
Apostles, even. Their attributes are lost or mere blobs,
Their miracles pointless, giving a duck, say, the power
To heal shattered bones and twisted hearts
Or making puddles rain themselves back into the sky.
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