St. Luke’s, Sunday: 1 pm

St. Lukes, Sunday: 1 pm

The devout outfiled
A glass of water
Still
Like a pool of stalactite tears
Beneath the pulpit stole

With the lights out
The only phosphorescence coming from the sun
Filtered through the prismages of saints
Here are caves and hinterground veins of quiet

Here the feel of bodies left
Knees just bent for wine and bread
The evacuated space where longing fluttered
Like a stone gutted peach

Or thought
When at the threshold of unconsciousness
And dreams are nascent and undefined
And upon waking seem so much less significant than when a foot was halfway
in the open space of inner sky that sleep brings

The boy crawls
Across the floor
Where his grandfather used to preach
Now breathheld as a studio where the nude is absent
I cant, with luscious resignation

Like a censer
The question trembles naked in the air:
Is god more here when his devoted are or not?

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