Pilgrim (On the Feast Day of St. Benedict Joseph Labre)
Emptied of the world,
you walked the earth
(God-gone
and God-given)
in an undertow
of prayer.
In a crown of gnats
you swooned
and slept.
Saint,
on your feast day
when the rain passed
a dozen potholes
held a dozen suns.
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My first thought was "oh did he get a picture of the potholes?!"
And then I thought: "I don't need a picture. I can see it in my mind's eye. That's what good poetry opens for you!"