In our purple blazer
and gaudy tie
we sat: the putative heirs

to martyrs' blood –
though unlikely heirs
tuning in

to the back end
of the Sixties:
the philosophical

drone of Dylan,
slick blues
from Eric Clapton.

The miraculous
our staple,
we pondered

the Shroud,
its weird reminder
of truths

that underwrote
our lives –
astride two worlds,

like Padre Pio,
we had the gift
of bilocation.