East

Incense dancing
Curlicues and arabesques.
The scent of coke fires and polish.

Grooves worn in the marble aisle.
Dusted with thread.
Time-rubbed sarcophagi are sentinels at the altar.

Footfalls jive in the eaves.
Diminished inside wool coat.
The blanket of holiness on frustrated shoulders.

Winter lives in every breath.
Speaking through the chill on lips.
The wretched stiffness of fingers.

Pale, stretched canvas faces.
Lips red like wax seals.
Cupped hands, wicker baskets.

Mother Superior makes weak tea and listens close.
This situation is just begging for lies.
Religious, but only in these churches.