redemption in the privy chapel

in the midst of a religious enumeration
the hum of the vaulted nave grows bold-
it disturbs, liturgically,
a journey sacred and abysmal:

(an eternal drone but stark and starless
in the false piety of lavender salts
and the mop yarn left behind)

do not ask for frankincense and myrrh,
there are no pails to guide us,
only an immediate sense of self,
triplicate views on mottled beige mirrors:

(a trinity of warped mugs
freeze before the spasm
of the snapshot lens)

something is exposed and something is left
in this bald heresy of ritual loss.