by J. D. Mackenzie
The holy church does not believe
inanimate objects like buildings
have souls, but I know you do—
I saw into yours
I recall a summer term
fixated on gargoyles,
drinking in the art
and St. Julien
on Bastille Day
Wood on the inside,
stone on the outside
centuries of incense smoke
spilled wax and wine
This of all weeks
hours after Palm Sunday,
the Easter sermon
already written
Fire takes us
when nothing else can,
not even time
J. D. Mackenzie is an Oregon-based poet with an unnatural dependence on topics found in the news, including international and progressive news outlets.
