MIDNIGHT MASS

I went to the Cathedral
half hoping for a Damascus Road flash.
All I found was a graceless barnyard space,
pressed full; a sweaty, heaving mass;
no baby to be found there.

The incense was a rich nostalgic lick:
sweet nothing like the tale end of dreams.
The carols were a playlist
put together to impress
some carol loathing musical sophisticate.

At least they had We Three Kings on the list.
I sang until my ghostly tonsils ached;
there was joy in that, and my partner's casual touch,
but nothing else.
We left before the Eucharistic prayer
and drank the fresh air outside the church.

RACHMANINOV'S VESPERS

My soul grazed
longing soaring.

My sacred hearing
dispossessing.

My heart's door
reverberating.

My banquet hall
all ready now.