Читать книгу St. Francis Poems - David Craig - Страница 11

The hard work and fatigue involved in restoring the church of San Damiano and how he began to overcome himself by going out for alms.

He praised God throughout the piazzas.

What were they all waiting for, a written invitation?

One had been issued centuries ago!

Or would they all wait for death

to rise up and be counted?

Gathering the alms of the night, in heavy stones,

Francis carried his future, his past:

wet blisters, a stinging chorus.

Many saw him as a Pharisee

calling others the same—what was so new in the gospel

that it had to be yelled across the squares?

But others knew better: felt their collusion

in his cracking bones—they who’d hung back

in every meadow, spilling heaven like wine

under stars, on cold earth.

His father and half-brother came, but

like puppets this time: where they lived, in ridiculous words

they could never speak.

One night he skirted his friends’ gambling

debt, balked—at his cowardice.

Then he forced himself, rushed to his knees, sharp dice,

begging for the men’s (abashed) forgiveness.

And rejecting a saving face, he stayed there

for too long a time, flushing in the stupidity

that was still saving his life.