I tire of chewing and drily swallowing
This bread of life, praising gratefully
Even this first crust.
Some weighty meal is mine, this day-to-day.
I adorn the habit and the cowl, despite
A dry-mouthed vow.
I weary, heels so tightly following
Which tread this path, taking faithfully
Even faith’s dead steps.
Done, with this: their fine, deserving way.
I scorn the orisons of all, and wait
For my last dust.