He prayed to Saint Rémi

à Vincent

Then the paint cried out

vermillion on

verdant meadows of

olives and poppies.

It echoed through the

gnarled branches and

malleable straw

and past the Roman

sentinel gazing

over his ruins

into the mountains

of hanging rock and

barreled down the slope

to prayer and path and

stone.

The paint cried out for him.