This saint is a drawn figure in chalk,
smudging her way through yet another parable.
This saint is black rain in early morning -
makes the world shudder-shudder.
This saint sleeps through the day,
riding a cloud.
This saint has been advised not to use
the cycle lane at any time.
This saint crouches at the back of your larder,
licking salt from a cracker.
This saint is making snow
with his own bare feet.
This saint fails to languish,
learns the harpsichord eventually.
This saint minds the gap
in the wire fence of your dreams.
This saint collects sticks and twigs
for no reason but the joy of snapping.
This saint has watched you trap a bird
in the crook of your neck.
This saint etches a doorway into winter,
a thoroughfare beyond the seasons.
