Sanctification and Something Dying
A still afternoon on the church porch
Settles in my soul
Like trembling hands
To the unfolding chest
Of a shot-through soldier:
The unraveling pieces of thread,
And the Holy Spirit’s refusal
To patch up the wound.
Fragments of essence;
The Old Man’s breathing diluted
Like the slow muted motion
Of rusting bells;
And the almost abandoned house:
Mailboxes used as birdhouses.