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yoga is bogus
to DesCartes
father of the modern art
of keeping
body and soul apart

ask directions
at Simmons Store
a racy

eighty year old maid
a high heels lipstick
and cigarette
on her rocker
with a cheap romance
gives the yoga teacher
a withering glance
a distracted look

“all the way up
and all the way down
steep snake hill
then left right left
you’ll spy

the Congregrational steeple
kept lighted at night
high over the fields
St. Catherine’s is right by”

Father Maroney greets me
with a twisted smile
from a heart attack
only a short while back
I do hahayana meditation
in his basement
with my class
the All Saints’ Day mass
and I hear
the words of consecration
for the first time
in twenty years

The road to St. Catherine’s
is a quaint old
within it
both Buddha and DesCartes
get trapped
by the Sacred Heart