Saint

POBTRY

SAINT

Like a pile of gold that his breath

is forming into slender columns

of various sizes, Vincent lies all

in a heap as even the sun must rest

and air and the noises of Manhattan

he thinks he is not a de Paul yet

the market is sagging today and he

'doesn't mind, he is waiting for his sofa

to arrive from Toronto, that's what

he thinks and of whether Maxine

would like a pair of jet earrings

well she would, emotionally at least

and what other way is there to like

in the sea in the salt ease

he founders childlike and aggressive

until the tow draws him out

and scared he swims for it

parting the breakers with strokes

like a rapist pushing through

stormy wheat and he is safe and serious

on the sand like his hair

so night comes down upon

the familial anxieties of Vincent

he sleeps like a temple to no god