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
and ever-sweeter
sermons
to the birds—
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.
old age.
