Mass

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.

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