Gothic Candelabrum

This is not medieval France. That gothic church
On the table is learning its history from the TV guide.
I’m the abbot in the refectory who keeps filling
The chalice with kegged beer. She’s a relic
I worship before a smiling Jesus wearing Dorothy’s red shoes.

The sunset is the scene of much of mourning,
So’s the eclipse of her bathrobe falling limp.
One of the church’s spires is bent. Red wax runs
From its portal. I’m interested in the immaterial made real,
She’s rubbing rosemary on her neck with a lambskin glove.