Miraculous Bunkum
The minds of pilgrims plod along because
They lack the gifts required to see without
A relic. Hunkered there inside its gauze
Of cloth of gold as if in holy pout,
It waits for priests to open up its box
Or gate, the reliquary encrusted with
The reliquary of St. Foy
Crude rubies and with chalcedony rocks.
The relic hides inside its cloudy myth
Like mildewed diamonds. Still the faithful need
The doors reopened so that they can view
A mystery reduced to matter. Greed
It is, imaginationless. What’s true
Is quite beside the point. They only want
Their sickness or their soul soothed—to be blunt.
~ Phillip Whidden