after Nerys Williams
These colors run.
Holy teardrops
stain the vellum.
Green sky, blue grass,
yellow walls, pale sun
melt together
as coats of arms
and fleurs-de-lis
go rolling down the margins.
Gold leaf catches candlelight
that soon will turn electric.
Dyes stain my fingers,
black beneath my nails.
Death, skinny and stubborn,
grins at me with its scythe,
but what’s a monk to do
who’s out of work?
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