What goes on in the darkness
must be innocent (at least here,
a place left behind): the sniffing,
the touching. It is the sea itself
pulsing; it is the eyes blank
upon those crumpled in alleys
broken with shattered bottles,
80’s green. Life, rot—all of it—
must be reasonable, somehow.
Such thoughts take me away,
standing before the altar: father
with his tongue on mine, hot;
his heart tangible to my body
through robes. That shape, nailed
above us, holds back his violence.
My mortality mixes with his smell.
I am fresh from communion. It is
the smell of communion, but more.