The bishop named his turtle Tortuga.
An austere choice, but the bishop is austere:
he wears old stained trousers and lives in the dark
to save on electric. Tortuga begins to search—
he wants touch the way we all want touch. 
Who knows his age or sex?
                                                     The bishop in a cape 
enters the office to light wax pots with a flourish.
With his ring we time when to press on the wax. 
Then I send letters to the archbishop, his Grace,
but I’m fairly sure they get misplaced.