After Reading Tate in 1998
Brother Tate whispers down the halls chasing scatterings of thought. 
He has forgotten his dutyto usher in all tomorrows. 
As he reaches for the limp bell ropes, a hairy cat rubs her arched back across the cassock’s hem. 
He follows cat through the cryptic garden, stops to appreciate the warmth. 
No bells peal out the wanton King, no clanks can feminize the Pope. 
Silence allows the lambs to suffer while God awaits action’s prayer.