• Vol. 05
  • Chapter 04
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I send the spindly brother
into trackless waste, Fra Lost
of Lost Causes, scapular flapping,
hat unequal to the gusts
that whirl it away. Eventually,
he gnaws the last of his provisions
and talks to angels. Through him,
I, too, converse with God,
whom I hope forgives me
this stratagem of always hiding
behind a persona to enter
his presence. Rarified light
illuminates each peak, each cloud-
shoulder. My little Jesuit pays
this no mind, conscripted.