you have lipstick on your collar I say
to my father the priest that’s just the Blood
of   Christ my son he replies by and by
(the milky thigh of   Mary in my mind)
William Blake’s eyes aligning in the snow
a statue outside London simply called
“The Heretic” where birds sit and shit and
live out their days in unconscious praise
of that third space between language and the
mute object as sunlight pours through
the stained glass at the Lincoln Park Zoo
where I saw the lions pacing and you
told me to always remember that the cage
is for the protection of   the captor