The sword and the sky are contiguous, 
the halo of one saint the face of another.

Every leaf on the tree turns to be seen. 
Angels never fall through the uneven

azurite, the hand stays grafted to the heart. 
Devotion is possible. No thing behind

the color of a rock. Gold stops at the garment, 
touches it, touches what skin is exposed.

Now mother and child need only one body. 
The impossible bowl of wine will not spill.