…And Nicodemus said to Him, ‘How can these things be?’
We sparkle, we chaff
And in tones nonchalant but grim
Confess the therapy of rosaries
Adultery and gin.
But, Oh, love, do not look me in the eye!
Morning’s torso always turns, always redresses in disgrace.
Lift the fig leaf to the face
(we can’t go back the Eastern way):
Conquest, rapture, boredom’s salted taste,
And bead by bead, dismisséd grace
From our fingers, from our bed,
And, disenchanted, sighs upon the floor.
The unheard didactic
Was invitation to adore.
Hillsdale, 2004. Self-published in Clay Eyes.