Church of st john the evangelist

Love even lives in an empty Sanctuary, 
shoe soles echo through heating vents
older than Jerusalem.  

Constantly moving, the air embraced 
the already sticky pews riddled with 
foreign fingerprints pressing for prayer.
A welcome pamphlet stuck out the pew number
askew to the left as if curious or pointing. 

The whole building seemed to travel cyclically, 
from the optical illusion of eternity in the ceiling 
all the way down to the powerful pillars 
that traveled back up through the organ pipes, 
resembling a giant baby's first recorder.


Not a sound in earshot but for the prayer pillows 
possibly knocked while taking a seat.
They were just wide enough for a knee and a tear, 
they hung on a hook at the ready, like a coat 
that finally can rest when you get home
and turn on the light. 

Yet how can illumination have diction? 
As if light bulbs didn't exist and stained glass 
had a wattage, the windows burst with colors 
not found in science or pigment; the story walked 
on walls to the pulpit and rested at the top 
in a column of three in gold.

I don't know exactly why I cried. 
Maybe it was because a sanctuary 
is never truly empty.

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