keep your heart locked up
in the tabernacle,
but the church doors
are wide open all night.
i am sitting again
in the last pew,
saying a prayer
to that full, doomed moon
we saw when we went home:
"please let this cup pass from me."
the sacristy ghosts
haunting the chapel
hurl epithets
at my black silhouette
prostrate on the cold, wooden kneeler,
alone in the knave,
putting my faith
in a locked door.
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