to the silver urn that steams on low.
(this priory has begged for fullness
but their scratchy habits orbit stone-
planets described by heretics,
scratched on skin by feathered drones:
do not expect illumination)
we shall not mention the fashion of the maxi
or palazzo pants, jodhpurs, or gauchos:
too much sun would bleach the phantom stones
that are hidden by the fabric.
a brown nostrum once used
to soothe the bruise
of recruitment beneath the norm
is now the only beverage of refinement.
(do not ask for milk or yellow
or the rusty chains will creak on you-
you do not want the portcullis,
your groove is not that cool)
in the worldly annunciation of sheer nylon
there is a steam that caresses a chorus of crease:
they frame elliptically her saintly eyes-
if only she could choose.