A Church at Dusk

One pale white cloudy cross lies
sideways, cutting a clean corner
into the indigo sky like an arrow
poisoning ink with milk; it resonates
through its permanent November
courtyard as if Sunday bells
were crows, it feeds on fumes
from sinners lips, bellowing
like supernova cat-calls
away from their crooked steps.
It is a stale magnet, I can't look
away from it, and like staring
at the Sun it leaves white spots
all over my brain, liquid lightning
that remains on the inside
of my closed eyes. The invisible
rope that pulls my stride
must be tied to every neck
I know; see, there is one now,
hanged like jewelry, knocking
at the hard limestone wall
with his feet and forehead like a child,
tapping gently on his parent's
bedroom door on Christmas
morning. Or a worm writhing
on the plumb-tight fishing line.
Like a kite with a strangled breeze
tangled in a lazy tree.

Reviews

[Pryde Foltz]

The search for meaning and belonging. So much in this write. I vote for Christmas morning.