Saints here are everywhere
but they're strange ones, give or take
—their names barely familiar
their miracles mostly unheard of
their creed whetted on sea-crested hills
and a promise of salt.—
They group the walls of the chapels and
draw the faithful in long black droves,
carrying food and their sunday smiles,
as they trickle in like prayer beads
one by one, to the repetitive
kyrie eleison and the sweet strokes
of incense and petals.
They linger in old stones, the holy ones,
their eyes cast always on the heavens
as if scrutinizing a great canvas
that may yet reveal the secrets of liberation,
the one art they couldn't master.
