God’s liturgy of liquid drums 

on the roof of our private chapel 

where you nap, and on the roof 

of the Vatican’s apartments where 

Pope Francis takes his microwave lunch

Constant crusade of Sacred Heart sirens 

slashing towards emergency rooms,

proclaiming angels and blood, and 

pouring halos of blue and blood red

into the veins of clogged pavement

Brotherhoods of scooters, Fraternities of 

Fiats burning the sweet myrrh of gasoline,

rising like prayers into the cathedral 

of November sky and the T for Tabacchi

shining salvation upon us secular sinners

The two young priests order beer, eat

cow’s tongue and speak of suffering;

‘I’ll tell you a thing right now,’ one says, 

‘Ninety percent of life is suffering 

and that will simply never change.’

On the overheated metro these nuns here 

wear white, but the ones over there, gray. 

The rosaries in their hands are no longer 

made of roses and for their ovaries these

good women serve yet cannot be ordained.

The forgiveness of a rain-fragrant florist 

by a crossing. At the altar of my table

the Filipino waitress serves a bowl of 

halo-halo, purple as the coming advent

of penitence and global awakening.