A Single Finger
One single finger pointing to a God,
That sign is what a poem ought to be.
A sonnet is a temple’s carved facade
And offers formal serendipity,
A mystic insight from a hand scab marked
By Christ’s stigmata. Francis made that rhyme.
His mind was launched by fever and embarked
To places far past monks and far past time.
His hands were pierced by laser zaps from deeps
Of heights and know the ambiguity
Required by poems—and look to steeps
Removed from spirit promiscuity.
..That poetry, true poems everywhere,
….Are full of hope appealing for despair.