The Decline of Catholicism

They tell me it's louder in the silence of a dumb chapel to bark your shins.
The priests do not come early enough of a morning; their orders of
                                                                   penance are rescinded.
Who tore soft bakers' bread? Will anyone pass out wine to everyone?
                                                                   Who gave communion?
Now and at the hour of our death, where is the old waxy smell
it might be in a poor neighborhood? Watch the nuns and you can see their
                                                                     knees.
Hear English, and it can be mubled more confusedly than Latin, by the
                                                                     Irish or Italian.
Recall how sex is guiltful; be aware of birth
broken virginity, blood, floodind waters, no abortion.
Scraped knees, worn and ben back are the uniform of Saturday
or weeks in the middle of Lent. Stabat Mater  sings to stations
symbolic, like the iron designs I saw in Germany
in the neighborhoods church that was comforting-clean, all too quiet.
My prayerful friends, old patterers, aged man left to his rosary
I may see you in the streets of old-fashioned neighborhoods;
Sunday papers aren't sold in such numbers outside the Masses. Bless the
                                                                       lessening collections
of folk or money. Will there be only bells, to color an evening.  What
                                                                       will we have, to remember from their
                                                                                                       sound?