Striated in folds, his red gown flows
Like a firemuscle dipped to a flamelip,
While featherlegged, lame and limp his toes
Writhe wearily wave-enrhythmed steps, chipped
Foot he crosses with, among gold minnows
Mocking him in nimble dance, jubilant.
Anguished, his brown eyes close in lead repose.
And all is gold, barren and opulent.
O, cursed Saint, your finger-threshing staff
Gnashes your gnarled knuckles the heat will taint
As skylinen soiled sags, the infant laughs
And winds sift pitchless. But travel on, Saint,
Such eyes narrow like a craving chorus
Of rocks, wound-worn and darkly susurrus.
Adam Fitzgerald
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saint-christopher/
