WHAT IS SACRED
I have no idea what priests
dream of on Christmas Eve, what prayer
a crippled dog might whine before the shotgun.
I have no more sense of what is sacred
than a monk might have, sweeping the temple
floor, slow gestures of honor to the left,
the right. Maybe the leaf of grass tells us
what is worthwhile. Maybe it tells us nothing.
Perhaps a sacred moment is a photograph
you look at over and over again, the one
of you and her, hands lightly clasped like you
did before prayer became necessary, the one
with the sinking cathedral in Mexico City rising up
behind you and a limping man frozen in time
to the right of you, the moment when she touched
your bare arm for the first time, her fingers
like cool flashes of heaven.
Originally published in The Haight Ashbury Literary Journal
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8 comments:
Such lovely cool and clean lines. Thank you for posting it. :)
Lee
What am I going to do with you? You break my heart with your poetry, it's so beautiful!
Thank you, mp, lar, and pris so much for commenting as you have. I really, really appreciate it :)
Lee,
that's a very nice poem! Love it!
lee,
That's a very nice poem! Love it!
Very nice work.
Makes me want to get back to doing some more writing myself, which is what the very best writing in the world is supposed to do. Do share more in the future. :)
wow lee, this is so lovely.
Bryan, BJPR:
I'm glad you like the poem and I appreciate you dropping in and commenting. Barbara, I dig those photos you've been posting. The boots with the dress were sweet.
Thanks.
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