Marginal Saints

We come from the margins of society
to meet in Hafiz's tavern
Seeing the blessedness in each other
we make up songs about
what is & what can be
We are like distant stars connected by computers
We breathe together & shine without doubt
Dancing by feel & senses we cannot name
we're the worker bees in this meadow of delights
of silken notes and golden smiles

We are the breezes of whispered words
spinning at the margins of the day
sometimes in haunting harmonies
and drunkenly off key at others
We amaze each other like sun catchers
shedding rainbows and light almost carelessly
blinding each other momentarily on occasion

We're the worst kind of saints imaginable
First we drink you under the table
& then when you're ready to get up
we pour you another round
We aren't too proud to panhandle
and delight in whatever we're given
We steal lines that haven't been written yet

We are the ones who have died while still living
in this tavern where our beloved keeps giving
us a word dance in drunken splendor
until the world itself withdraws in surrender
In spite of ourselves we whirl
into a song of unearthly beauty
or shake you by the heart
Yes we are marginal like the light that spreads
shamelessly from the infinite sun

© Brian Fitzgerald
Steve Toth
Claire Barry
Zen Oleary
October 21, 2003