Thy breath is beautiful upon the hills.
In Thine eyes is strength.
I reach out my hand to touch the bright
razor wire around the fire tower.
It flashes like your teeth,
plucked & settled in their monstrance.
That is what faith is like,
one’s own tongue
against someone else’s teeth.
Uncountable, each perfectly molded.
The drug deal I’ve been observing
is concluded.
The young men have driven away.
What I thought was a black dog
curled at one’s feet
was a backpack with a gun in it.
Sing, razor wire in the cross-thermal.
Sing, illusion of a private faith.
You can see the world from here.
It is perfect in every respect.
Now, climb down. I am watching.
On the Recently Re-Instituted Memorial of Our Lady of Walsingham
More: Poetry
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