To be a saint is to smallify
the world
to cramp writing on lined paper
(in order to economize)
to lick the paltry plate cleanÂ
of bread, of stew, of salt.
It’s to stretch a thing to its limits
in order to circumscribeÂ
its full breadth:
In this stretching of a thing,
its fullness spills out:
illumination of essence.
To imagine the earth a pebbleÂ
and the moon a coin,
small enough to pocketÂ
and stroke with a stray fingerÂ
throughout the day,
together with the other loose findings:
de-stalked leaves and crawly things,
stray snippings of furÂ
The saint makes the monstrous worldÂ
as small as the meow of a hungry kittenÂ
wanting a bowl of milk
So that it may be loved, loved, loved
Heroically.Â