Clutching at the throat of the sky:
the cat, the goat, the labored breath.
This is what it is like to pray
in the church of brief meat and death.
Above the organ’s high piping,
the arrows of arch and steeple
and the high hawk’s hungry crying –
the cloud-castle’s muted rubble.
God has torn down the temple wall
and scattered the bricks and lumber.
This stark beauty is terrible,
far beyond what we remember
of the lost garden, each petal
scattered, aglow like an ember.