CROYLAND ABBEY
irrigation or exit
November
the pearl presence
ensconced
in prayer’s mouth
whose tongue, whose
seasonal apse
weeping
comes to ground
here, to rest
autumn’s glands
milk their bronze
museum
comes the hour
of fasting, but
(in prayer’s mouth)
the same water
only
without gravity’s
percussive tyranny
breathe in
the marshes’
dank parliament
Ophelia
in the mystery cycle
is the first
to testify, blue riff
surfacing
the sky’s drain
a better warden
perhaps
the concentric flocks
make their small
gauze
it’s early
I have pierced
my inconsequence
