In Italy, in San Lorezno,
I found three options for Sunday devotion.
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Some went to Sancto Laurentio
in their Sunday finest,
entering the wine colored doors
in orderly fashion
to quietly take their wafers and wine sips.
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Others went to Bar Martins,
dressed to meet their finest friends.
They slipped under the roof
with laughter on their faces
and songs on their chests,
to drink anything and throw darts.
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I sat on a bench near the fountain,
a scarf around my neck,
a Bible and notebook on my lap,
listening to living water and chewing words.
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