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	i have become a monk, dull under an october sky.
	if death himself offered me the pomegranate
	the choice between spring and snow
	i would close my eyes. sleep.
	
	like an illness, i can't even stomach 
	the thrill of words.
	i close my ears tightly, pray daily against
	their temptations and honeyed voices
	keep myself from imagining
	the poems in jezebel's journal
	her breath like vanilla and autumn leaves
	on the lips of a sweet-skinned boy
	power and passion and possibility
	beneath her fingers like jewelled seeds
	the ink dripping delerious and sensual
	tart and fragrant like wine

	beneath my robes i finger my rosary
	mutter my prayer:
	i do not want what i cannot have
	and i do not want to want