The tinted abbey slants
lathes of nocturnal light
in the throw of my home.
Peopled steps clothe their faith,
all the stony garments
bounded beyond my sight;
a spell of my own breath
pools blacker still than the
cast of my abbey-dark
home; it strangles upon
the bronze of revanant
prayers I see only from
a distance.

                 The grave soil
choking on my feet bids
me watch the dream of life;
as I wait for my time
to die unloved and ill,

                                                I touch the cold
                                                                           of naked skin.