Adam Fitzgerald

Rookie (12/30/1983 / Staten Island, New York)

Saint Christopher - Poem by Adam Fitzgerald

Striated in folds, his red gown flows
Like a firemuscle dipped to a flamelip,
While featherlegged, lame and limp his toes
Writhe wearily wave-enrhythmed steps, chipped

Foot he crosses with, among gold minnows
Mocking him in nimble dance, jubilant.
Anguished, his brown eyes close in lead repose.
And all is gold, barren and opulent.

O, cursed Saint, your finger-threshing staff
Gnashes your gnarled knuckles the heat will taint
As skylinen soiled sags, the infant laughs
And winds sift pitchless. But travel on, Saint,

Such eyes narrow like a craving chorus
Of rocks, wound-worn and darkly susurrus.


Comments about Saint Christopher by Adam Fitzgerald

There is no comment submitted by members..



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?



Poem Submitted: Tuesday, February 14, 2006



[Hata Bildir]