Church - Poem by Leslie Philibert
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.
Comments about Church by Leslie Philibert
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.