Once I am sure there’s nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut For Sunday, brownish now;

Some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence, Brewed God knows how long.
Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Once I am sure there’s nothing going on I step inside, letting the door shut.
Another church: matting, seats, and stone,
And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut For Sunday, brownish now;

Some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ;
And a tense, musty, unignorable silence, Brewed God knows how long.
Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence.

Written in New York City in June 1960

I wrote this poem on a visit to the seaside and blah di blah di blah di blah. I wrote it for my friend Susan at the time, and she said it helped her through a difficult time. – Jeff