by Mary Anne Clarke

We look at saints and streets
The same way. Both are straits
Between place and place: the saints,
Like the streets, seem to stretch since
Then to then, an obscure chain that sends
Its hand to hand, to hand our sins
To Heaven or the High Street. Streets,
Of course (and here the difference starts),
Are normal, while decidedly the saints
Are not. As a child I’d got the sense
That eccentricities were the only signs
Of sainthood; to counteract my sins
I walked backwards down streets
For a year – it didn’t last, since
Real saints, like streets,
See where they need to go and go there.