The Sisters I don’t see have departed. In spirit I am
by a window for ballet flats crossing a sward,
campus. A great shuffle to a freshly mown convent. 
Habit tossed like toga in the air.
Lips shut, would that be a hymn or grinding?

Homeroom flashes, in pairs: covering
drops of orange with my sock,
tan passerine pecking the yard before flight.
The cross-sole passion I’d read of. Until exhale,	
entries later, the world from a wise Glück:

“Each kiss was real, then / each kiss left the earth.”
Social Studies. My seatmate, a twin of the beadle 
whispers knoll could be dropped. Not Mary. 
Did any of our grandmothers spot our steeple 
on a hill? I hadn’t thought of more than one way 

of knowing. We bow our heads upon my Lord
and my God in the chapel. Only lately a passer-
through corrects, look up as the Host is raised. 
Each vote we vote to re-christen our alma mater
in our seat plan jumbled, before bell.