to the monastery, I legged over fences
and listened to the whispers of olive groves,
feathery leaves flipping like a lady's fan or
cards in bicycle wheels. I left New York,
went out for air one summer and basted
my body in breath essential as any oil.
Soaking in new, in space and sunlight,
I shed years and cells and stretched
back into myself. Saint Francis wept.
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