Saint Anthony

[shuck_spit]

i

I crest the the mown-over
strawberry-field hill this chilly Niagara day
and find the man who’d asked for me,
the human field statue.

Saint Anthony unplied and lovely
watches the blush rise like a soldier,
like the Last Day. From wild Anthony
the bright day comes, a pouring pale,
a laying of warm hands for all Canada.

ii

Yes, I hissed, yes, suddenly a devil
to your always desert saint,
weeping spit in your beardy ear,
cleaning your teeth with my tongue.
I will give you all the ruin you ask for.
Gnash yourself on my rock,
strangle yourself with my long body.

I am the wicked wind who sloughs
off his face in a dusty heap, that
only meant to hold it.

iii

And I’ve yet to say the prayer right, no fault
of Anthony’s nor of the fruited words,
but of this fired tongue, burned,
knotted, and steaming like a poem,
and the halfwit who runs it.

iv

Or, at the roadside, slung over my shoulder,
grass tears for the man with god’s ear

full of sin and happiness and grinning,
waiting for the urban blow, the we are living bus.

I have not saved nor sullied you,
but carried you from the desert to the gallery,

the upshot silver, which is no ideal,
but concrete and glass and love enough.