Della

By the garden door, of Our Lady of Sorrow, we witness the poor, across Catherine Street, their eyes forlorn, seeking linen and charity, the soul of lost hordes, accompany them home, some laugh as they walk, who needs fresh sheets, when they can wallow, to this state of being, commissioned then taught, you don't need to follow, when all truth is caught, swollen and breached. and every part swallowed, twisted and divvied, spun to a perfect nought, so never need to borrow, even their teeth , between moon and sea.