The Pope of Playalinda Beach (2003)

The Pope of Playalinda
Beach stands at the
surf’s edge swaddled
in white and gold
brocade, his long
train dissembling in the
wash. His crozier
posts the sand like a
surf caster turned the
other way, bejeweled
with summer oceans
and the eyes of
rapturous women,
hooking us all.
And those eyes --
so serenely they
scan our naked
congregation,
shepherding us
to the insides
of this crashing
surfside day.
Above his head
the sun is a belfry
of summer fire,
pealing the sanctus
of a shadeless choir.
Who is saved
and who gets damned
by such ordained
and consummate
bliss? The surf thunders
and recedes down
the shore,
no crest not a prayer,
every crash
a blue door,
the long ebb like
plainsong, censers,
egress to the back
-- a cathedral pour
the flesh restores.