An Afternoon Colloquium Chris Fahrenthold Emerging from the sacristy at four to white linen, perhaps later a ghost, a wand, a paten of pastries, some notes— some hasty homilies to introduce the conversation: “What is heresy in poetry?” Bad, dishonest verses. No spirit curses being summoned down to speak through a glowing cloud, torch-lit mist and fallow flesh, brittle, with jam and brie. The tabletop’s invisible Turner now rattles with the rumcake mystery— the book, the dead, the living, their voices all merging in the nave at almost five.
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