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Poem

A couple of ruins leave the cathedrals
nave and portico;
it is always molting season,
mice and beetles help
they nibble and gnaw,
wind-laborer’s, labor,
their whiplash backs bent,
to lever slates and all things loosened.

The sanctified, they guard their stony hearts
but the edges were made to crumble,
made to be returned to rubble.

The two twined ruins
exiting these ancient piles
were created to be spans and transits
for the upliftment of saintly figures,
no one will miss them, yet their
plinths, their buttresses
their embossments
until recently
held a small alcove heavenwards
a niche, that will probably
lose its faith soon,
toppling one year at a time
into an agnostic downfall.

The two ruins are so disfigured
as to be nothing at all,
but they are moving in mysterious ways
to where a tireless worker
will help them rise again,

but of course dust will stir up dust,
the mice and the beetles
will continue
to nibble and gnaw, however
the Maker will be ready
once more
to return dust to cathedrals.

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