His rosary repeats every chance
the means collect in pocket of his
well-torn jeans held up by a busted
leather belt, destroyed by bicep
binding and makeshift holes.
His meditation is medicated,
his god is chemically composed.
The stigmatas rise in elbows
covered by long sleeves in
July’s heat. He says he can see
heaven, not in glints of white light,
but in clandestine calm. In his
induced repose he repents
to the soft hum of Tuesday’s
sun, and once again,
he wakes.


A.M. Davis