a sonnet.

please, forget the rain - the memories
like drops collected into pools of cold.
the dogs would yelp and take away our peace.
we lay in fields of lilies, words untold.

please, on thursday leave the altar bare
and never let your feet touch basins of
holy water. then, a vacant stare
from your old friend, that sacred flighty dove.

please, earnestly step forward free
to speak a solemn word for those who live
silent and broken and abandoned in the
holy space - looking into faith as a sieve.

so in the hour of our death we find
a stitch of peace and glory undefined.