Thread some red string through your hair in the mirror.
Get buzzed downstairs by some friends of yours.
Walk up East 10th in the fog and the drizzle.
Pass by your namesake in the cathedral doors.
People look through you, and talk like they don't know you.
Stare into the wood grain til your vision swirls.
The bar lights in the bottles like the billion golden haloes
of the martyrs and the saints
whose prayers keep the world in being.