• The hard-won privileges of the dead
• Dead men's tales
• The clothes never get clean
• Title belt
• St. Sophronia's cathedral
• Or cough up smoke into a handkerchief
• Now that she's been high enough up to see Paris

St. Sophronia's cathedral

When the coast is clear to close the umbrella
I notice the skyline is different--but how?
"It's Saint Sophronia's cathedral," says Sarah.
"The gargoyles," I realize.  "The rain must have eroded them."
"The rain--through solid granite?" she says.  "In one night?"
We enter a taxi.  The driver suggests lightning.
"That's possible," I say.  "Lightning is not a toy."
We all get out.  Eight men lie crushed
beneath eight gargoyles.  "What can this mean?"
I ask.  "That the judgments of God are upon us?"
"At least on them," says Kuresh.  "These men were thieves.
Look!"  The contents of their valises reveal everything.
Sacred relics: Saint Veronica's handkerchief,
a feather from the dove of the holy ghost,
the sword of Laban, a lock of hair,
David's harp missing some strings.
Then, glinting turquoise like a shingle
in moonlight, a scale of St. George's dragon--
I would recognize it anywhere.
"They would never miss this," I think.
Then a scraping sound over my head.
"Just kidding!" I shout out loud.  "Only kidding.
Can't you take a joke?"  Then I stick it
in Sarah's purse when she's not looking.