once i am sure there's nothing going on
i step inside letting the door thud shut
another church: matting seats and stone
and little books sprawlings of flowers cut
for sunday brownish now some brass and stuff
up at the holy end the small neat organ
and a tense musty unignorable silence
brewed god knows how long hatless i take off
my cycle-clips in awkward reverence
move forward run my hand around the font