Sanctuary in the Dome City
Sweeping nuns dust the reliquary,
checking for over-night multiplications in the veil.
wishing to make a trail of the pieces, as they disappear
Night-scatter of change across the floor alerts me
but I think heading to the forest is the right thing.
I should go back to the time when my arms were swinging
but I lost time between pews.
that happens here, when you said to watch rose bushes
Clocks have not chimed all week. You have not returned for me,
Did you know they let the candles go all night?
other times not. I am bird-load, a thorn-weight in the hour