Window-glaze and sash plumbed
on the sun to leak the stains.
Incense whetted the air in fire spun.
In the ruefulness kindled in a saint,
where the panes purpled the floor,
I crawled with shards in shaking
hands between legs and pews sure
I liked stockings, sure of heaven.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 30 Number 2, on page 31
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