Here,
The moss grows thick
On Jesuit toes,
And long grass frames
The once pink nail-beds,
Now all grey.
But our Fathers
No longer need
These hoary feet, for now
They have golden souls.

Their bones,
Now ground to make our bread,
No longer inflate our teacher-friends.
And for us, we can only submit, flowers
To their stone pigeon holes.

But in this place of birth and rest,
I borrow magic to mark my words,
And I thank them for this loan.