One Way to Be a Catholic
If he smells of Brie, he blames the condom.
A papal bull annuls more complex solutions
the chicklit encyclical cartel hollowed out.
To stimulate desire for sex he uncovers
sprung rhythms until the opportunity
shudders by. Nor does our small durance
dally with that steep or deep. He believes
he has improved Hopkins after ten years
wallpapering the originals with Tipp-Ex.
He pictures popeseye steaks the shape
of breasts, oiled and expensive, and recalls
their je ne sais quoi with a tasteless grin.
