The Black Virginity
Baby Priests On green sward Yew-closed Silk beaver Rhythm of redemption Fluttering of Breviaries Fluted black silk cloaks Hung square from shoulders Troncated juvenility Uniform segration Union in severity Modulation Intimidation Pride of misapprehended preparation Ebony statues training for immobility Anæmic jawed Wise saw to one another Prettily the little ones Gesticulate benignly upon one another in the sun buzz— Finger and thumb circles postulate pulpits Profiles forsworn to Donatello Munching tall talk vestral shop Evangelical snobs Uneasy dreaming In hermetically-sealed dormitories Not of me or you Sister Saraminta Of no more or less Than the fit of Pope's mitres It is an old religion that put us in our places Here am I in lilac print Preposterously no less than the world flesh and devil Having no more idea what those are What I am Than Baby Priests of what "He" is or they are— Messianic mites tripping measured latin ring-a-roses Subjugated adolescence Retraces loose steps to furling of Breviaries In broiling shadows The last with apostolic lurch Tries for a high hung fruit And misses Any way it is inedible It is always thus In the Public Garden. Parallel lines An old man Eyeing a white muslin girl's school And all this As pleasant as bewildering Would not eventually meet I am for ever bewildered Old men are often grown greedy— What nonsense It is noon And salvation's seedlings Are headed off for the refectory.