Orphan Hagiography

So many things become sacred
in the candlelight. In the alleys of my prayers,
their wings are filigreed honey. The night
is slick and red as a ripe peach.
Where were these miracles when I knelt naked,
slicing open my thumbs on a rosary
of broken glass? Now the moon is a pool
of melted wax and the wind hones
its razor at my throat. There is magic
in the conversation between wine and tongue.
What isn’t said becomes blossoms of fog.
I want to say I am somebody’s
son, but the saints are all statues
wrung with the smell of smoke. I dream
they scatter into florescent petals
until I clasp each one with a bare
hand like a monk reciting his vesper
prayers alone by the lamp of memory.