The monks at the retreat seemed
pickled, profane. Chanting children
blinded by their wide-eyed wonder.
Paralyzed by pacifism. Pitied
for all the wrong reasons
The nuns wore their habits well:
a quarter of gin before evening worship.
Routine and rosaries, rounded bellies.
Modern life terrified them, fossilized
in their airless buildings
The scientist wanted everything to
deconstruct into digits, to dissect
magic to mundane mathematics,
make mortal mockery of miracles.
All anxiety, alone at his equations --
frantic in the face of what
he cannot formulate.
And the addict: a nicotine-stained
nightmare, skin thin across the skull
and bones rattling like pill bottles.
Ever-seeking. Heartbeat a litany
of limitless desire.
©sweepingly
S