The Man Without a Country

Into every world walks the perfect being

once. Roman candles are his hautboys

and big things like pigeons and horses

float to his feet, pretending they are motes

in the sun. He's no Saint Francis though,

and his trip could not be called anabasis

just because he occasionally wears a beard.

There is that about him which does not meet

the eye, but he is obviously as pure and fierce

as electricity. Even ignorance loves

his motives. What a cry there is when he passes

through the streets! Emerald dust whirls

in the air and holy water makes deltas

of cheeks-some think he's Jesus or Siegfried!

He's not. He turns his back in the sun to pose

for memory, green thumb up. The moment's gone.

Some of the crowd are turned to salt. The rest,

like anxious Daniel, are enslaved by lions.