Church Circle

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Traffic lights absolving pedestrians’ haste

Genuflecting off curbs

Against the red and green commands.

Doing penance for their pace

Unaware of a descending October evening

Darkening red bricks

Littered with damp leaves

Causing tires and feet to slip.


Workdays always surrender

Some to a chilled wind whipping around the circle,

Powerful enough to be a new task master

Issuing demotions of sniffles

For forgetting a coat,

At times, gentle enough

To be lazy with a sweater.


Racing to their parking spots

Entering streets crawling to a wider sprawl,

The church in the circle’s womb

Birth the sound of bells through alleyways.

Saint Anne’s motherly voice

Tolls for the lonely and unwed,

Ringing as a leaf falls.


No one notices the girl in her office.

No notice of her at all

Bathed in a golden light.

A host raised above after six o’clock

Her window a chalice

Within a red brick tabernacle,

No notice of her or Annapolis at twilight

Or even of the bells that rang minutes ago,


Might as well been some October evening three hundred years or so,

Same colors, red bricks, and the human feet that slip

On the damp leaves.

Or of someone like me under a streetlamp now lit

A moment among the movement,

Long enough to see her put on a sweater

And her forearms become relics in the sleeves.

Turning off the light, emerging in the twilight,

Entering the weather

And then the church in the circle’s womb

Perhaps to pray for a man

Who writes these words on wafer for her to consume.



Categories: Life, Observations, Places, Poetry

Tags: , , , , , ,

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