Believe me, I undressed stones
last night, woodlark–
Saint Anthony, I know
I could melt miracles into being-me.
Moon-spark. Light off my hip.
The sun’s about to. Dark or not, Saint,
listen. Letter-bloom or not. Just once,
I’ll call you, Saint Anthony,
the woodlark who waits on moon-sparks
over my bed. On the ceiling, silence
swirls toward undressing. Tell me
your name, please. Just once. Sing
how the sun’s about to call you, miracle-
ready. Are you? Undress, please.
Saint Anthony, listen–
Man. He’s my woodlark, stones
in his mouth. Believe me.