SHE WORSHIPS THE PROFANE






She worships the profane,
the mundane, the prosaic.
The routine formulation
of meals: an endless
inventory of necessities.
And then on her deathbed
she calls for the sacrament.

She pursues the fluffy fantasies
of arrested adolescence,
in the glitter of foolish baubles
and the heady scent of artificial success:
a willing victim of confectionery glamor.

And in her dotage she cries
for lost beauty. Having forgotten
how to spell the word wicca
wherein lies her true power.



25.VI.92



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