Devotion
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
A fictive leaf of ink, or paint, or gilt
On vellum is perfection brushed there small
But large in love of utterness. The tilt
Of gold leaf in a sole monk’s ardent stall
Will please a godless eye one thousand years
Removed. The artist does not think of this.
He dreams of pleasing Christ Himself with tears
Of crimson blood from sword-pierced side. They kiss
Down illustrated ribs there on the page,
Weird beasts and birds on borders. The notion
Of holy fingers in this sacred cage
Is not of art. They work in devotion
Made up of scarlet faith. “Beatus” bleeds
Right through the sheet. That whispers this scribe’s needs.