November—slow, snow-buried November—
when once I signed myself with the sign
of the cross in the apse of a chapel named for Bruno,
the oil lamps alight at the corners of the altar. 
The Lord be with you, I said to his nuns. 
And with your spirit—their quiet reply. 
Brethren… I began and looked out upon the nave.   
It was square and tall and pulling my gaze 
up toward the far retreatant’s loft 
where, to my surprise, I saw a friend. 
As we all confessed to Almighty God, 
etcetera, I looked up again and thought, 
No—Is that really him? And like 
a swift tsunami, the memory of our last 
encounter hurled itself against me.

Mid-August—hot, sunbaked August—
where he and I and another—tossing 
our towels—hit the Brooklyn waves 
at open stride till the sea broke against our backs, 
and we plunged into its frigid tomb 
and rose onto that rolling edge of the deep. 
Coney Island where the boardwalk was bustling—
more skin than suit, more sweat than sea;  
where a couple of dudes spent the day hustling: 
draping two fat and looping pythons 
across the shoulders of anyone with a couple 
of crisp washingtons; where cyclists glisten, 
power-walkers sparkle and everyone’s 
ink whether on neck, biceps, or calf 
gleams; where a pack of dog-walkers 
and some sun-drunk sunbathers stand
and gawk at an air-guitarist; where the sandy
wood holds the sun to our feet as we stroll,
drying on the fly, towels in hand, 
toward the van discussing burgers under a sky 
as clean and blue as these sisters’ eyes.

Let us pray, I said joining my hands
at the altar—bright, time-piercing altar—
where, in my heart, I held both the nuns 
and the beach and everything contained in each 
and all of this just in time for the Collect.