In good light, tabled text,
snowwhite serviette forecasting
consolamentum.
Ancients crowd Believers
for the cleansing of souls.
That even Bishops, Popes,
could come away unshocked,
the first orthodox allocution
of falling vowels.
To nourish one’s prison
with water and with wood,
garmenting in light from
the gathered harvest.
Good words, a very melioramentum
in a fat age of sin.
From parcia the light itself
responds, to signal the approaching
kiss of peace, elbow
against elbow, armored
to a gentle truth.
But Bernard, preaching
in deserted churches
saw other shapes gathered.
Honey and locusts?
From a steaming tub
to the cold stones
the breaking of the wheel,
flesh conquered.