The Sacré-Cœur
Let this be the end of vice in the enclosures of churches;
a lovely little cell among the graves, and I there alone.
early Celtic poem, anon.
In the autumn of her travels
in the Parisian Latin quarter
she climbs in pilgrimage
to the white-washed dome
of the Sacré-Cœur
high upon the hill
to enter into the heart of God.
In this hallowed place
a homeless man slumps in a back pew
thumbing through his porn.
The sacred and the profane
make love
in this confinement,
giving second birth.
Let this be the end of vice.
His dirty fingers, his filthy clothes, the smell of him,
and her, a showered traveller in search of sanctuary.
They come to hide
from their profane enemies
but find themselves face to face:
girl with camera,
man with pictures.
As far as the earth is from the heavens
she tries to walk upon holy ground,
seeks a worthy place for her worship.
He raises silent prayers:
Let this be the end of vice in the enclosures of churches;
a lovely little cell among the graves,
and I there alone.
She turns the other cheek
and walks away.
In some corner, she too will learn to pray.
Are all transfigured by this ascent?
Ever the homeless in these high places:
their stolen moments of ecstasy in the womb of God,
naked angels attending them,
sacred hearts pounding in their impassioned chests.
Let this be the end of vice in the enclosures of churches;
a lovely little cell among the graves, and I there alone.
early Celtic poem, anon.
In the autumn of her travels
in the Parisian Latin quarter
she climbs in pilgrimage
to the white-washed dome
of the Sacré-Cœur
high upon the hill
to enter into the heart of God.
In this hallowed place
a homeless man slumps in a back pew
thumbing through his porn.
The sacred and the profane
make love
in this confinement,
giving second birth.
Let this be the end of vice.
His dirty fingers, his filthy clothes, the smell of him,
and her, a showered traveller in search of sanctuary.
They come to hide
from their profane enemies
but find themselves face to face:
girl with camera,
man with pictures.
As far as the earth is from the heavens
she tries to walk upon holy ground,
seeks a worthy place for her worship.
He raises silent prayers:
Let this be the end of vice in the enclosures of churches;
a lovely little cell among the graves,
and I there alone.
She turns the other cheek
and walks away.
In some corner, she too will learn to pray.
Are all transfigured by this ascent?
Ever the homeless in these high places:
their stolen moments of ecstasy in the womb of God,
naked angels attending them,
sacred hearts pounding in their impassioned chests.