Her hand has held many cathedrals,
built of many stained-glass panels
representing the stories of
some wine-drunk ceremonies,
and she confesses with fingertips
pressed on the wine-stained panels
standing in for the priest
that she has held too many of them.
Her eye has seen the icons of the age,
and in the lead that joins the glass
she traces the figures of
those who are not yet saints;
the age is too soon, the age is now,
but she is keeping false sanctuary
with a metal-wine poison. Perhaps
that is why her faith is so dark.
Many cathedrals weigh heavy in the hand,
and so many glass panels blind the eye
when they are darker than wine
and joined more impurely than lead.