Covert, hardly cordial, came commands
from the quarters, hind
and head. Twin branches of the same
government. My mind: heretic, fiend
for fashion, my rhetoric
a couture magazine, all pictorial
content. Back issues abundant, still,
in the pews, the waiting room,
meant for other congregants hell-
bent on staying empty.
In them, as in me, no creed
but beauty, and a brain pretending scorn
for beauty. Chimes of the church I
worshipped: the unholy body, well-read.
No holes to speak of. No heart.
