A man on his knees; superlative supplicant
bowed before me in a sacred space.
You beseech, implore; invoke graven images
of Christ, dare the designer to spring from the cross,
to render redemption just in time for tea for two.
Sing on a swing; for me, for you.
You hum sacrilegious proposals
of coupled connubiality, kiss scars left and right
below the navel, leave none of your own.

In a monastery at dusk, I am cautioned
to come earlier to see light through the panes.
Whitewashed arches of revelations
caterwaul in raw relief against dimly lit
glassine ceilings of heaven. A thwack to the head
says it’s better being kept in the dark.

I spread my fingers on the choir loft rail;
absorb the stone, assimilate the grief,
convert the light. I phosphoresce,
am told I am going to hell. Touched by divinity,

I touch your shoulder. You shimmer on your knees.
A monk outside our cloister falls to his.
Swears to all who will listen --
he saw providence scorched in vain,
vainly, that Eve through stained glass pains.