On the boards under the autumn rush of russet leaves
when, in the distance and hushed, The Joy of Man's Desire
tolls from a steeple I dreamed of once in pure white under
the weathering pale of grey-haired pews sparsely filled,
that steeple weathered too where once belief was felt.
Paint comes in rounds and the collection box is square,
draped in purple under candles a long black box is there:
I don't know who comes around anymore or why-
I don't know what they're doing here.
Boys kick a ball that's sap stained worse from leaves
while a toddler in pigtails hugs a wide tree that rustles
and the drawn greats wait for their final cake reward.
I struggle to understand the nature of things baroque.