Step across the threshold
with a pocketful of grief,
token of a monster’s wit,
gold remaindered in its
sleeve of mud.
Host to oneself in the entryway’s
harp, forced to kneel
in light-usurping darkness,
humors borne away, stripped down
to care and cleansing shame.
When the bell reveled in its loll,
its curves the silhouettes of a nymph,
and when the chalice gleamed
for just a perfect moment longer,
rim pressed naked downwards
like a candle’s excommunicate gasp.