Descend to the misericord,
half-cantilever, half-secret:
a mercy-seat that bears your weight
only if you bend.

Beneath you,
grotesques, green men, grylloi,
foxes with chalices,
apes with miters,
a woodwose curling
in relief.

Above you, a hammerbeam roof
like a ribcage,
rood screen removed,
still haunted.

The angels see your unworthiness,
your entire epistemology.