It was cold when they left Macedonia, The saints barely warm in their robes, Sleet on the mules. In Greece, The villages shuttered and mean. Dangerous ports, difficult seas —

Jerusalem Wasn’t much warmer. Crepuscular streets, hushed welcomes, Worried looks at the door. From Macedonia, said the saints. With money for the Christian poor —

In cramped houses, dinners of fish and figs. Lamplight played on plaster walls. Later at night, the lowing of the kine, A different meal, The bread of remembrance, the wine —

In Rome, Dome impossibly high. Rain blows like a spirit Onto the flagstones. The saints walk into gold In the frescoes, Urgent everlasting gold —

And I, who have no home — When will I come from Macedonia? When will I go to Jerusalem? When will I go to Rome?