An absent priest rings a silent bell

by Rick Lewis
and what’s been happening all along has just begun,
the sky through the rusted trestle of a train bridge like a cathedral ceiling,
and maybe the sound of a cricket
rubbing its frail legs together,
maybe not.

At night, distance alone seems holy.
What’s remembered gets remembered in pieces,
and even those pieces dissolve.
In the dark, what we call our lives, becomes
the space between the pieces.

In the houses where no light shines,
the ones unable to sleep and alone,
sigh, roll over,
and continue their worship.

© 2001 by Rick Lewis. All rights reserved.