Saint

Time to scratch this magic
chipped pencil (sitting in for pen
that's shown up blue or red) at
window glossy, green weeds grown
around sunken roofs of row home houses,
little corner bars and sandwich shops,
Rusted black circular monstrosity
wavers and rises and laughs in far
to background blue sky, streaks
of white illusion conceivable depth,
the ozone layer, the magnetic field, the lie;

looting by the sun on my window perch
day-time whispers of afternoon scrawl;
how to know so fortunate a singing pigeon
tick-tapping on silver flap (the kind beholden to
dryer exhaust) he peaks listless--chiaroscuroed
in the alley, plaster cracked below,

monochromed hero of avenging distance
jester of outer space romantic fantasy,
truth in hand under tornado tsunami command;

lighting bridge barn doors on fire
like Brooklyn bridge Armageddon,
get to your feet and melting shoes,

It's all in Revelations,

my squinting affairs lil' wings--