Return To Mass (St. John Vianney)

A night's jog through a quiet town. The strange warmth of an old familiar church. The morning sun and outside sounds. Picking the proper jeans, beguiled and besmirched. Cautious steps inside as anxiety melts off from incense. The light from the window above my pew. The love from a girl's eyes aching and iridescent. A cymbal struck as faces work like brightened ghosts, the heart's early hue. The flow of a smoky-lighted hour, from soil to sinews, soaks the sodden rag of the spirit dry, as the walk back into the sun and out of the Mass makes love lag in the mist of living. For every cornering thought. For every bend of the heart. For every shade of a tree. And, in stabbing, singular rushes, For every level of light that I might be.