Monday, July 31, 2017

WHERE THERE IS DOUBT, FAITH

Had any self-respecting
man of the cloth 
actually witnessed

this—ecstatic and 
innocent-as-
alabaster young friar

out there wandering 
deep in his own garden,

high on his 
hunger and preaching sweet
and ever-sweeter

sermons
to the birds—

he would have scoffed,
guffawed, pointed, and 
just about 

died 
laughing out loud—

instead of 
either by employing those 
little yellow 

canaries' favorite method—singing,
or else,

his own vastly preferred 
and time-honored way—cursed,

and tired,
and finally—of miserable
old age.

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