The houses of the holy made from rotting pine and ichor
the soft sinew of fallen things abounds
the stench of decomposing things could palpitate a figure
in miasmatic rapture from the grounds
Could we recall the odors of an element’ry school
by huffing happened hosts and haunts held here?
Beholding all the traces of a trenched Stygian rule
Nostalgic sacrilege remains the sentinel, I fear.