The Empty Church
The wall’s crack races to the hollow cross
in silent-vein angles, sung by angels.
How long can the church stand? Who will
save, or will salvation, to this old man standing
With that cross upon his shoulder? Don’t fall.
You mean too much to those who still gather
At your ashes. Your windows, eyes, still manage
to stay clean – radiating copper light into halos.
Don’t fall. You’ve starved yourself of life
to keep a holy faith. Don’t fall. You’ll live forever.
On the wall, only words can speak words –
a tag screams stop to the mermaid floating
across a field of grass to the granite doorstep.
It leads up to a metallic-blue door, 666
engraved above the oversized peephole.
The wall is the only place where they can all
exist in harmony. The wall as much as the mind.
On the Marcy Avenue Platform
To that child
I place my palm against the view.
At a distance, the towers fit against
the surface of my nails – aligning
the smooth ridges delicately engraved.
Both tops are painted in a thin,
smooth white – hang nails rise
like chimneys stained with rust.
I let my fingers fall, one by one,
hoping each building follows along.
No, only new ones keep rising.
If only we weren’t so different.