In a Church

In the sigh of frescoes

immortal eyes unhinge.

 

It’s you, me and the old

moving air that flees

in tasted gust to the walls

and keels in a pirouette.

 

Intervals are rent for the choir

when all dust is met with the roof

as they sing and they sing

 

or when the old tenor waddles in

combing the stair with a whistle

and cough – fends grub with love

that keeps the stone alive for years.

 

Simple – he comes.

 

And here, now, I sway

on wings I’m too small to know.

Unbent, in the blue-smocked violence,

 

I feather my hands.

 

Dec, 2016