The Rector's picking something from his teeth
(lunch) when I ring his doorbell to inquire
if I might see the church. (He plays it with
both hands, that mouth harp.) Wait for the verger,
he says; so in a plaza of glazed tile
next to the City of London School for Girls,
lulled by the estrous music of voices
and the sway of bodies,
I wait, until an old door opens inwards.
And though the verger has not yet returned,
the organ teacher says, "If you don't mind,
I'll lock you in," and goes. That rinse of light,
clear and Protestant, stirs an opposite,
a deep, medieval sluggishness in me.