Sand Into Cut Glass And Angels Over Tuscany (Texas)

he is wondering---

the miracle of
turning sand
to glass and
the sun is
omnipresent to-day,
certain to bring its
own brand of effulgent
divinity to the
monotony of desert.

he is miles from San Antonio and there are angels flying over roadside diners from here to Arizona
all the paintings of Spanish saints
and the haloed God he was
baptized under as a child
white wearing clean in
the shadowless afternoon
of all the cut words and he
scuffs his worn boots over
the layers of sand watching it
cloud into nothing he is enjoying
all this alone and heat in
his pocket is a postcard from
Florence extolling all the
frescoes of virtue of the muses
dancing the air over Tuscany dawns.

yes.

that is true.
there is a Praetorian
he is missing and
the Roman tracings of his
patrician nose of his
classical profile would
belong beside some-body alone:
but this is all.
sand that is quickly
becoming glass the
blowtorch of description
and tinny radios of old
family pick-up trucks
that are legacies in themselves

and above the
sadness of icons of the
hot metal pressing the nape of his
neck shaded by
a hat and there is some-body
to miss but
in the end there is always and he
would have that laying
alone
under the cathedrals in
Italy while
alone
he wanders his American frieze
of deadly day
of desert and
the friendlessness of below:

he is waiting for, upon wings of angels white and pure as newborn horses, to remove the dreams of some-One and replace them with
commonplace epiphanies and sand into
cut glass

figurines of Italian saints