Sunday, November 3, 2013

When the hushed chimes tolled

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.

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