He dangles objects
around his neck, placing the hard chain on
doorknobs, glass and deep wood.
In sleep beside him I dream
of girls -
placing beaded crosses
on any outspoken surface, placing
crucifixes in rooms scented
by pleasurable sins.
Of his objects
the nuns ask,
“What significance, mind weight
do they hold?”
In waking hours, I remain silent.
Become nostalgic for the religious memorabilia,
remembering the crisp quiet of an imagined
answer that never comes.
