The Under Abbey (2004)

Look about the sprawl of my word:
An abbey of stone songs
Arranged like Oran’s chapel.
But its heart beats underground
In a souterrain of vowels.
Like a holy oak, the roots hurl
A sacred canopy beneath
Known limbs, to grip and drink from paps
Of earth. So my secret chapel
Opens beneath this white chair at
The ever-hour before dawn. Down
And dark are sacred courses the
Music seeks, safe haven for profane
Diffusions, blue baths in wombs
Of old. The door, it sings: Your tomb.