Father Smith sat in the little room
With a wooden window we assume
For folk confessed sins hidden from his eye
Or at least they have a chance to try
As I confessed I ate my sister’s rusks
Should he know I’m starved of human trust?
As I confessed I knew desire for men
Why should I repeat that phrase again?
Yet is mere desire itself a sin for me
As I have little chance that it shall be?
I’d need a mountaineer with caring hands
And a hundred heavy rubber bands
In my imaginative fantasy
I desire to talk while sipping tea
How my heart sings 