Red Light
Outside the iron gates
Of the Holy Sephulcre cemetery
Evening traffic moves; it is as sinister and as quiet
As the braking
Of the multitude of feet
At rush hour in Penn Station –
Hush, hush against the marble.
No one speaks.
Within the gates,
The angels are all blind;
They lift their sooty broken
mouths to the misty rain:
Putti
Straddling the stales
like Raphaels; difficult and randy –
Cheekier than a pinked
and summer boy
Who shouted, “Red light.”