Wrinkled hands
will chatter hymns
on a bustled sidewalk
where the blind
can nearly eye
an escalating steam,
the burning energy
from indiscernible means
and still the echoed singing
is sung song too far gone.
“No thing to some thing.”
She omitted the return.
He was waiting for it,
oh so patiently.
Echoes wander round
while deep into my knees
the splintered bony compact
from moonlight-late retreats
and chewy marrow screaming
from in between your teeth.
We chant a near return,
a spine-tingling scene
of empty pews contemplating
Friday chapel peace.