Cathedral

Liquid stones hurl trees

and dreams of fire upwards

through glass of storied power,

as Self is pinned under vaults

housing the self-donations

I fear yet still devour.

Like the wound in Messiah’s hand

the rose window stands at the boundary

to a world of love and a love of the world.

Existence is worthy,

this mortal house sings.

Grace is my gravity,

drawing the hurt and the well,

the dead and almost-alive,

to my fermenting altar. 

If you empty yourself to learn

the meaning of my architecture,

the architecture of all meaning,

and you too may become,

in time’s thickening way,

a gorgeous wound.