Heavy doors, dim vestibule, temptation to yoo-hoo.
This dream of the holy place, all dogged week
of clotheslines and dust cloths, certain as the smoke
from burning barrels in the unison of wind. Hardly
grace in their arrival, toes turned out, heels high.
But they study no doubt, sit as though thinking
in thanks for tributary streets, everyone walking.
The old tongue's children tread particularly
as though each season disguises ice in northerly
shadow. Let them contemplate the font
that blessed their names, wait as they were taught,
and where. It's approaching time
to hallelujah, jaws taut, fierce with volume.
Unwrinkle laps to rise one half beat ahead
of the organ the way the pull of the belfry rope, audible
the entire height of the steeple,
sets the sanctuary sounding like bones in the head.
(c)Jay Paul 1999
from Going Home in Flood Time
The Ink Drop Press, Painter, VA
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