Cathedral of Salt

Beneath all this I'm carving a cathedral of salt. I keep the entrance hidden, no one seems to notice the hours I'm missing  ...    I'll bring you one night, it's where I go when I hang up the phone  ...     Neither you nor your soul is waiting for me at the end of this, I know that, the salt nearly clear after I chisel out the pews, the see-through altar, the opaque panes of glass that depict the stations of our cross — Here is the day we met, here is the day we remember we met  ...    The air down here will kill us, some say, some wear paper masks, some still imagine the air above the green trees, thick with bees building solitary nests out of petals. What's the name for this? Ineffable? The endless white will blind you, some say, but what is there to see we haven't already seen? Some say it's like poking a stick into a river — you might as well simply write about the stick. Or the river.