St Anthony The dry sand scorched your fractured feet, the sun in its indifference flayed as visions of water flowed, warped by the heat, carved cold by the Devil’s hot blade. Visions of dancers in festive saloons, of champagne, gold tinsel, red ball gowns and girls, of lovers you’d meet underneath secret moons, breasts adorned with glimmering pearls tormented and tortured you. Knowing your course, knowing you’d asked for all this, you, little hermit, by mind’s perfect force filled with fear hot temptation’s abyss. Let me be tested on Egypt’s hot sands: lacerate, mangle my manicured hands! John Badgery