A Poem For Sunday Morning

No salvation outside the church,
The folk has lost its shape.

Then enclave by enclave he knew,
A whole in the measure is one.

Motes of communion, a flunkey at sea,
Her hyphenate altering immortality.

At last a piece of bread for the nauseous,
Absolute certainty for the superior.

Who killed who, a scent of sea at last,
A fasting broke silence with Greek.

A wine in the cup and a murmur in hue,
This incense which made her faint.

I salute you, master, with an homage,
A book shot upon an epistle.

They razed stained glass in the alley,
And built nudes upon our Museum of Art.