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