Stiff and cold as a whale`s skin,
full of space and thin air,
edges and corners beyond stone,
moon windows and cold-fire brass,
curtains heavy with words
slow and dark in pitch.
This is the hole at the end of the world
with too much God. I am a spider
crawling up gold and patina
to a height that reduces us all below.
This is bloodless, lost and serious.
I have forgotten the gravestones outside;
they are all out at sea, old with green,
not lucent but thick with rock,
the left-behinds, we are the lucky ones
that hear the first bells,
a shake of tones,
we rise at command,
trained and black.
Leslie Philibert's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Church by Leslie Philibert )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
William Ernest Henley
Did you read them?
- To Joyce, Roger A. Rose
- Miriam's danse, Dimitri Khokhlov
- The harp players, Mark Heathcote
- Heil Britannia, Francie Lynch
- The Clouds Out Of An Aeroplane Window, Sambanath Denis
- I'm no less, Nassy Fesharaki
- On Looking Out The Window Of An Airoplane, Sambanath Denis
- Mosaic of Love And Legends By Onkar Nath.., Bijay Kant Dubey
- Psalm 067, Forrest Hainline
- Who Will They Put In Charge of Vanishing.., mary douglas