Hearing the bishop bang the sidewalk with his crozier
to draw the attention of a stately sycamore,
and then watching him slowly raise his arms in front
of the tree so all the leaves might drop off together,
I didn’t see why I couldn’t do the same thing behind
your back to make your choir robe slide off and onto
the floor, but as it turned out, a stray computer repair
man came into the sacristy at more or less a central
moment, and it was he who appeared to benefit most
from witnessing your panty-and-bra foundation.
His mistake, however, was in turning around
and running back out to his van for a condom.
That gave me the time I needed to usher the bishop
back to the church, have him raise his robed arms
once more, and craft you into a floppy sumac.
William C. Blome lives in the…
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