The icons
Their gilted, leafed, gold
Vibrant vermillion
Watch with watery eyes
Dried on stone
As old as memory
They shift
Imperceptably
Less than the fierce jackknifing
Of human need
As hot as birth
Waiting for rain
The saints
Painted with care
Remain vivid
As those who bleed
Live too fast and bruise
As dragonflies tussle
Enmeshed in each other’s flicker 
For a shortness that seems
Long