I am your pilgrim, who wanders
to stay home; your monk,
who keeps silent when you demand
confessions and theology.
You are too difficult to love
directly; you have no roof
or floor, and I am too pious
for your rain and mud.
So I keep your shrine, the best of you,
the clean, the smiling rest of you.
I am a stubborn priest, who knows
only in the dwindling oil of you,
the weeping and rebellious flame
about to die.