The street and the village
from two stories around it.
.
We work to our deaths
the prayers for our penance
that we may wake one morning
to the grievances behind us
.
It is there
I sat to play
the baby, grand as a piano
an Italian town
children to lunch
in the silence of fallen rain
a tall drop wanting.
.
I see the church
steeple steps
new whiteness
the cooks in the shed
weddings on the way
brides name as mine
secret into the love of a husband
the schools, the work or the play
the hardening knot of
what’s been brought on us today
.
A freshly scraped grave
the condolences of a new enemy
the familiar face behind the counter
bringing the fresh brew of coffee
.
We long to take our steps
in trustful moves toward one another
I wonder why we may be hiding
in the desperate spare of forever
our secrets dreading
the souls between us.
Passive Architect 