viernes, 12 de septiembre de 2014

sexton

The shutters are open,
there are no curtains.

Stop.  Look through the dark pane.
Find simple sanctuary without icon or lace,

a congregation of one, who has forgotten
how to pray.  Come.  Listen.

Take up residence, sweep away the dust;
expose silent eyes, deep wits.  

Light a candle.  Line the sills with potted geraniums.
Stay.  Long enough to see them grow.

Be the sexton who makes supper of thoughts,
whisks a fluffy omelet of the past.

Sing.  Something that sounds like a hymn,
what ships and stones might say.

Dote on my still possible body,
the soft secret structure of worship.



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