An old man on Grace Street is going mad
In a Canadian T-shirt he won’t change
And red unwrinkling pants I thought had made
Him stylish when I met him in the spring —
Five or six times a day I see him walk
Down Grace Street to St. Francis church, and knock
And pull its wooden doors, always shocked
That his entitled holy place is locked.
Undreams Damascus from a baffled Paul,
Rolls back the road where some unstricken Saul
Rises up, as bubbles through a beer
To a surface where we disappear
And wake in some uncalendared forever,
An unwelcome Elijah passing over.