The Church of Darwin.

Sat in the bedroom, incense clouds billowing,
The table neatly breaking under a thousand pairs of shoes,
Not one ever worn.

I sip champagne and speak of Darwin,
Whose poster coats every crack
On the white washed walls.

He is on the mugs too, and spread
Thickly inside the magazines.
His face haloed by the lighting.

But he isn't on the shoes, they were bought as company before I read his book.

I talk to him of ocean voyages as if they were my own.
And he smiles down upon me
In such a reassuring way.