The Monks of St. John’s File in for Prayer

In we shuffle, hooded amplitudes,
scapulared brooms, a stray earring, skin-heads

and flowing locks, blind in one eye,

hooked-nosed, handsome as a prince

(and knows it), a five-thumbed organist,

an acolyte who sings in quarter tones,

one slightly swollen keeper of the bees,

the carpenter minus a finger here and there,

our pre-senile writing deathless verse,

a stranded sailor, a Cassian scholar,

the artist suffering the visually

illiterate and indignities unnamed,

two determined liturgists. In a word,

eager purity and weary virtue.

Last of all, the Lord Abbot, early old

(shepherding the saints is like herding cats).

These chariots and steeds of Israel

make a black progress into church.

A rumble of monks bows low and offers praise

to the High God of Gods who is faithful forever.

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