I worship not with hymns or knees,
But in the rustle of the trees,
In socks that vanish in the wash,
And toast that lands, of course, jam-squash.
I’ve built a chapel in my brain
With pews of doubt and tea-stained rain,
A steeple made of “Could be, though,”
And sermons whispered soft and low.
No angels here, no Book of...
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