when I stared at the priest in rote motion
handling the word, the water, the wine
watching the motion of his lips
anticipating each moment and movement
A thought fluttered in my child’s mind
the bottle, the book, the chalice
all the little parts of the act
creating the illusion of being done
the doubt planted itself in the concrete
the gospel, the sermon, the hymn
that made up bulk of my mind
sending out roots through each crevasse
No comments:
Post a Comment