His light,
held captive
in this chapel,

compelled to live
on the waxed lip
of a candle,

pinned up
on the wall,
depicted as

eternal, gift
from a distance.

We wander,
catch the striped
sun shimmering

through paned glass, watch
our prisoner
flicker. These walls,

the grain,
this tallow,
the wax statue

of our teaching
keeps the sun from
these wood trestles.

We gawk
and pass quick
hands through the flame,

pass the tin plate
and the blame, pray
to the constant

who’s now
a convict
to the quick wind,

to the snuff end,
or just a breath,
our sun contained.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

One thought on “Sunday

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