Traveling under ground,
always one woman reads

Good News, crinkling words—
onion-skinned verses;

where her Savior speaks,
little bloody marks.

Man in wool and beard
deciphers minuscule squares—

scripture buttressed in thick
walls of comment. Hard-luck

men croon, “Little light
of mine, gonna let it…”

Three-part harmony. Smirk
for a dollar. Once, a monk—

burgundy robe topped
with saffron vest. Next stop

Church Street; next stop
Eye of God, Burning Babe.

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