ten minutes before mass
you slip through the church doors
wrapped with time
you watch the sermon drone on
lifting its message
heavy with guilt
towards the blue
eggshell-painted arches
pillars pointing long white fingers
like stems, elongating
the shadows behind you
you bow your head
and close your eyes
in a brief murmur of amens
golden censers and fragrant incense
chasten your secret sins
dissolving the end of words
as your fingers trace the cross
laid bare on your withered chest
forty minutes later
you step over autumn’s dry leaves
feeling less brittle and
lighter for now.
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