Paul who became Buddha
by Abigail F. Taylor



Wrong eyed and cruxed suddenly in harsh light,
his foot clock-worked and twisted, moving down
blue highways, coin tin in hand and in spite
everything, grinned and forsook Nero's crown.
Oh brother, brother worrying the ground,
hang your blood on fat necks not needing bread
and rest, save for that fig kiss found
in the garden you remembered, then fled
because you loved the lofty living dead.
Now penance gives into peace and smooth brow.
You ask only for another dawn instead.
I saw a woman feed you today. Until now
could not see past that suffering block.
But now I know there's honey in the rock.





Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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