by Alden Nowlan

Not every wino is a Holy Man.

Oh, but some of them are.

I love those who’ve learned

to sit comfortably

for long periods with their hams

pressed against their calves,

outdoors,

with a wall for a back-rest,

contentedly saying nothing.

These move about only when

necessary,

on foot, and almost always

in pairs.

I think of them as oblates.

Christ’s blood is in their veins

or they thirst for it.

They have looked into the eyes

of God,

unprotected by smoked glass.

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