Latin octaves rise to sculpted arches
then fall into the creases of lime-starched robes
and incense seduces our nostrils
with Mrs. Robinson allure.
At all points of the compass
I am surrounded by sons of Adam
and daughters of Eve;
Yet each one cocooned –
suspended on a gossamer axis.
Choral voices glide like drunken bees
through the sandstone honeycomb
whilst October sun invades the hive
with its golden promise.
Do I resist – decline this Holy meal?
Should I critique – in righteous suicide?
I reach, partake.
Mix hope and memory.
My first my last.
My one and only.
