“The Cardinal”
The cousin cardinal wears red
Does he not?
The cardinal out the window
Needs nothing of these scattered books
These scraps and scribbling
Not even full of sound or fury.
Yet the cardinal says his matins,
The cardinal salutes a dawn we all share,
Drinks a dew,
Admires the sun’s play among droplets
We don’t even attempt to count,
And the one cardinal says prayers
To a thing we could never see
While the other drinks his praises
To one we can taste.
Destructive Anachronism 