"As it is in heaven..."


A ribcaged building with a hundred hearts,
a flute whose pores are souls in grege,
every concern out-folded,
every eyelid pulled to,
and walls and saints and ceilings leaning in, looking in–
but one sovereign,
a girl with bobbins in the back of her head
tucked beneath the pulpit’s shade,
has turned to stare
with eyes as big as communion trays
at the long black rows
of worshipers
who seem to have fallen asleep.