They found his body stooped in prayer,

back bones dislocated in three places

from supplications, hair hopping

with lice and fleas, holes in his goat-leather cloak,

his whole body hirsute, skin scabby

and shedding flakes with maggots oozing

from ulcerated legs, reeking

from thirty-plus years exposed to the sky

under balding hot summers when he drank

morning dew from the tips of his own fingers,

and freezing winters when his eyes

were lashed closed with ice splinters

on his tiny platform on a pillar, sixty feet high

in the sky with a cord and bucket for parcels

of flat-bread, goats’ milk and petitions

for intercession. That nest where he settled

between heaven and earth wasn’t fit

for the birds. But he was a lightning rod

of God. Some days he stood arms outstretched

like a crucifix and the crowds called out to him

for more miracles, healings, prophecies.

Although he berated the rich, they loved it,

came in fancy palanquins in even greater numbers,

gave more gifts. There were waves of pilgrims

and day trippers. Some read signs from the study

of his excrement and urine that spattered

and stained the column base. Pictures of him

were pinned as blessings on doors as far away

as Rome and when he died, his corpse,

a stinking worm-infested mess, was carried

in procession, exuding light that was preserved

in his relics and still escapes sometimes in paintings

and visions of his hairy image, imprinting minds

bright as a meteorite on a dark sky.