In Aachen Cathedral

In that high gothic choir appended to
the octagon (the hallowed chapel built
by Charlemagne) black habited he stood

conversing with a lass of twenty years
perhaps, weight mainly born by firmly planted
left foot, the right foot lightly resting on

the sanctuary step, knee slightly bent
to drape the habit handsomely, and (who knows?)
allow the sack to hang and cool in comfort.

Though words were doubtless lofty, the young man’s stance
projected just a little more than liking.