The Church

Painted angels guard the altars; And rest and shadows; beam from blue eyes. In incense-fumes dirty lyes swim. Figures stagger woebegone in the emptiness. In the black kneeler a smallish whore With faded cheeks resembles the Madonna. In golden beams wax figures hang; Moon and sun circle the white-bearded God. A shine of soft columns and skeletons. The sweet voices of boys died at the chancel. Very quietly rapt colors move, A flowing red from Magdalene's lips. A pregnant woman goes astray in grave dreams Through this twilight full of masks, flags. Her shadow crosses the saints' still ways, The angel's rest in lime-washed rooms.