Hands, waxen-white,
feel through corners
black as a cassock.

Muffled, no sharp echoes
ring off the altar,
the vaulted arches.

Rumors dribble out;
unholy water
stains the marble.

Christ bleeds
on a beam of wood,
His teachings in vain.

Clerics shuffle,
out-stationed
from accusations

not to be crossed,
till murmurs grow again
like mumbled rosaries,

and they move on,
wiping the sacrament of trust
from their hands.

05/27/2002

Posted on 05/27/2002
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