if I could stop you loving saints

I think maybe you would stop
loving saints if I were to throw you a fine
drink(coke, because I am after all
young and wideeyed and all the other charming
tinges of vernacular which explains
distance)or if I were to lead you by a
golden carrot towards all the capitals of europe
which you have never seen and which you
see every time you

want to touch a whitewashed face, that is
epic and roman and classically heroic, but here,
take the coke and take the winds that draw
the continents forward on the tides, and I think
maybe I could stop being so young if I

emptied the air around a volcano, enough so that you
and I could breathe without the murmurs of holy orders
getting in the way-

I think a city
street with you would be all the sickening orange
archways I could stand, and would be enough
to sleep propped

against for the rest of my youth which(if I am not
mistaken)will last for a very long time.

I hate it that
you have brown eyes, and that you came from a land of foppish
courts and natural salt licks. I hate it that you
are not

allergic to marble.