Augustinians In The Piazza Poem by Morgan Michaels

Footless. like birds of paradise, they course
bound for vespers? maybe just for dinner.
Thirty fingers mutely holding forth
Two comely novices, a grand monsignor.

Overhead the dual cathedral spires
close rank in mutual salute.
The swallows swarm. Upon this hour of hours
even our vast umbrellas tip hat.

We are the world they skirt
our tipsy tables caught by falling night
We watch them as they drift across the court
They watch our liquors catch the failing light

as though from our too-worldly wine and bread,
resplendent smile, there leapt a perfect arc
over which they resolutely tread
until they reach the portals of the park,

the cloister, darkening on the further side
where lemons glow within the deepening green
and unicorn and maiden still preside
and they are drawn into the what-has-been.