Sonnet: To Your Immaculate Glory (with a Fellini Ending)
by John Kendall Hawkins
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We sat together on a pew, the dark
engaged us, its silence a vigil's rose
whose fragrance brought such ecstasy to those
eyes of yours, soft in that light -- God's own spark.
I've seen your heart ache for the world's sorrow,
for the wordless epiphanies, for hope
in the mysteries of the sacred trope
that lies hidden in souls of tomorrow.
All I hear's Beatrice this and Beatrice that,
but sitting here, your head framed in glory --
stained glass stations of the cross tell His story --
for my money, you're the Immaculate.
Fellini: one whore to another goes,
Dove la vita? You: Who the f*ck knows?