Penultimate Diurnal Disease by Robin Scofield I hear you calling St. Francis as you walk away from my name toward the sparrow whom God dropped into a thorny bush worth two with a raccoon. Your big-eyed look spells an excited optic nerve, the retina marking upside down a fountain where we throw broken coins. My heart’s Q-wave crosses the lines. I shiver at the barrels of potassium and salt that have gone down with all hands on a sea of shiny cups. I move your curtains to one side. You are a carved wooden hand in the poinsettia, Flor de Buena Noche. Inside thick walls, orange trees and bells draw us out of our names. You feel otherness wherever you go, you have more than a name. Four names convict me of crimes in the early morning. I know I’m not at my best when the sky’s full of ink and orange rinds, the debris of the comet without the light. I bear orders from the six directions and count time from a square center. Your voice is a bare twig growing from a cliff in the fog on the day the parrots left the four columns.