(First published in Black Buzzard Review, 1999)
The cotton T-shirt was pulled over her head
by isosceles triangles hanging on a plane of shoulder blade.
With the spire covered in cloud,
my eye fell suddenly south
to a flying buttress supporting a nave
and two rose windows in the full bloom of love.
But mostly it was intersecting lines of vestibule
that brought me moaning back to church
and the brown Spanish grotto
where it was hip to be so square.