Freckles and Burnt Irish Crosses.
Who is this man with twin mirrors
reflecting the African sky
Rushing eyes like the Jordan River?
He stares a lens into submission
blinding me with the glare
Nestling a rosary on his bare breast
He runs to and from the gods of rock n roll
remembering the slain disciples at her altar
Grasping instead for a bright light, so hot, too pure.
And the white and the black
The freckles and burnt toast skin
Collide in a glance, a cross.