This cathedral, upstairs where the bell tower should be,
A garret, a cell, a hunchback stooped over a book,
Not a bible but black anyhow. A book of clouds
Resonating like smoke in swirled images,
Imagination a solitary priest, illicit as a broken god
Worshipped in rebellion, secretly. A stroked cat
Contemplates the flames of candles where the wind
Is disturbed by the breath of incantation
Or is it a lament? Something is not right, not quite,
Something out of place. Even the moon beyond
Seems a hook, a question mark.
What broods in sackcloth and beats itself
To break a habit like a curtain inhabited by a ghost?
The cowled monk howls unheard inside his head
Like the hooded hooligan in the street below at midnight,
Undetected, both hide their desires beneath their cloaks.
Is that a dagger I see before me? No, its stab is only…
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