Sanctuaries

The eyes glazed over or there was a glitch
or there was a split or there was a protection
or theirs was a denial or it was an abyss, the problem only being
my own expectations, as I was trying
to break through glass in an old redundant cathedral
in that there brothel, when really
I was stood in my own glazed time
and stained glass mirrors believing these warm sanctuaries
could ever be home: it was not actually a brothel
but an institution, though we all had our eyes closed
(we’d cradled many faces
between the two of us) and I naval gazed
(this is a confession) and I dreamt of home
as is always implied: I am reducing life
to its blip; I am incubated and getting over it all
outside the library without redemption, or similar.