Anthony of Egypt

Antony of Egypt
took his wasteland for its messenger of sands,
calling back to a holy —
a heritage of life —

for a thistle prickled by a breeze;
neither a royal Scot with a crackling splint,
nor one with a thigh
made in a rich land.

He filched another’s death
to sleep in a tomb,
his rough sleeping
making embalming winds.

As if to archive our annals
and point us to the stars,
he rested his beard
among the wild,
searching holocaust.