Last night, me,

who never went to church,

rushed through the darkened rows

of cabins, knelt down,

and kissed the sacred altar

– hypnotized by an uncanny

hail, the shade of a bark,

no hopes of august rapture.

I could conjure every

numinous metaphor

the bread on the table

the salt of the earth

since I was blind to see

only feel that there were

silent tree trunk limbs

that stopped my lungs

filled my mouth with bright

green glorious pages

I must never utter.