like the romantic saint from Terni, we wear the flowers,
wreathed up, around our brow.
no need for a knight of the cross. we tear through the
night in our own holy vision.
I love you, I love you, I love you. we say it three times
because that number holds
in heaven like it does down here. we don’t understand,
some forgotten magic, low and old.
a faeire queen and her lost lord: we make the picture
work. a theater troupe is in one eye,
a traveling band in my other. we see the past.
animals at our heels we feel the present.
a bed, a bed, near the end we meet the future.