In a God’s-eye
view all the edges
are sharp
Tiny but distinct
Jerome
picnics on a ledge
with his apocryphal lion
sunlight falling
on him in particular
does he wonder
if God might prefer him
unwashed in stained
starving rags
as he has recommended
to the Roman matrons
some now (presumably)
in heaven but no
he’s wearing rose silk
he’s brought along his tall crucifix,
a skull, the egg-shaped
stones he likes
the elegant apparatus
of his project
his hat’s a red bright
circle on the grass
behind him
from a stony spindle
green hills
tumble to the horizon
there is
so much to see
the light
that burnishes
the sawtooth
edge of every leaf
small castles
punctuating the wilderness
and in a corner
awkward camels
crossing a narrow bridge
the lion
dozes
Jerome
kneeling half out
of his robe
holds up a stone
he’s ready to hit himself and
to go on hitting
hard
until God pays
attention
published in Cleaver
