The gear noise quits when I close the door.
Smelling incense, I watch the light
turn glass into grapes, and from knee-worn
pews, I hear the Beatitudes, the words
and rhythm of the Songs of Solomon,
those crisp old meters galloping in reins.
I hear the trusses creak, the weary beams,
above the choir loft, across the narthex.
My skin sprouts quills when candlewicks
like skillets of fat, sputter and spit.
The ceiling swirls with clouds and doves
above the heads of lions and lambs,
reposed in the arches near shepherd hooks.
Motes start trembling in the dimming light
with an airborne feather tossing about,
waiting for the whir inside to end.
Writing from South Carolina, Larry Jordan’s work has appeared in Comstock Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Red Savina Review, Straight Forward, Antiphon , and others. He recently had a poem nominated for the Pushcart Prize.