I know your ghost still drifts like a dirty angel through this town.

Enveloped in clouds of drapery, the Virgin perches between maimed angels

Strange meeting this, the holes there in his hands and feet and heart.

He has by heart the gondolas of Venice, can summon a teakwood dhow.

All my nights are like papyrus, drenched in tears, a wash of disobedience staining my blank ease.

A poem by Jessica Powers from The Second “America” Book of Verse, a collection of the best of America poetry, 1930 to 1955.