Low Sunday Poem by Indigo Hawkins

There is a bell tower in France
which seems to shift as much as I do.
In supine whirls of wet on wet, it blurs
heavy, half-formed pirouettes
then clangs in sharp relief, jarring
light and shadow with
its petulant reverberation.

For a split second of sound, I find myself
sulking above a concave crowd of Quasimodos.
The silhouettes are dull, dampened echoes
but for a slow smudge of opium perfume
which gentles the cathedral with shaded murmurs,
and I, smeared, vibrant once again
vibrate with the want of a heady tenderness
and a sanctuary all my own.