Was it just legal fiction brought us here? The battery Is silent on the question, gone cold for fear They’d wake the dead. They won’t but you know me— A “ruin bibber,” unreformed, Romantic. The morning’s clear, if cold. I sit in choir, Intone a requiem in foreign diction. Communed with gulls, asperged by the Atlantic, Would that I sang with Pentecostal fire. My teeth are flint and steel. My breath is friction.
Dan Rattelle's poetry and criticism has been published or is forthcoming in First Things, Modern Age, Crisis, Catholic World Report, Alabama Literary Review and elsewhere. He is a graduate student at the University of St Andrews. Follow him @Drattelle.
'Postscript: at the ruins of St Mary on the Rocks, St Andrews' has 1 comment
February 18, 2020 @ 5:54 am Cynthia Erlandson
Beautiful rhymes and rhyme scheme!