Slower & slower & then, for one/
Whole month, it spun so fast/
It was impossible to be jealous/
Or afraid or lost. Pants flew/
Off of strangers. Lapdogs floated/
Away, zigzagging across/
The sky like balloons.
Forget the finger-flipping road rage,
smile for the tiny waving palm.
Bobble-hand Pope Francis
figurines for your dashboards
are available at the Madonna Shop.
We got the rosaries,
t-shirts, decals, key chains,
all the official items.
I got six rosaries.
He never finished a performance without making a prediction. His predictions, if right, would immediately boost his prestige and reverence so much so that when he passed his offering bowl around afterwards people would be more than willing to part with their hard-earned cash.
Touch them, the tesserae, the shards of floating
glass, which skim the rain-full gutter. Not dead:
us/them—mere stutters, gluttons for new skin. Life,
peel back your veil. Now, see? See it again: To be dead
another time is a deciduous explosion.