I know I could be really good
if I had a private loch and bog
away from the other hermits’ cells.
Colman and his bloody bells
disrupt my praying. I can see
his candles burn across the bay
more hours than mine. It drives me wild,
so crowded are these blessèd isles
with would-be saints who all deny
the flesh in more outrageous ways.
I want to be indifferent as stone.
I demand to be holy all on my own.