I’ve burned a lot of chapels,
but I left this one standing.
Particles lilt and descend
in the sanctuary
like slow manna,
the thought of snow
and providence.
There’s no ground
past the stained glass,
the cave of holy beasts,
the hollow atrium
waiting on the promise
of an impulse.
There are three souls
here with me;
they carry
no words
in their briefcases,
they clothe
their eyes
and teeth.
The chapel faces east;
the sun
is threaded
through four
windowpanes
intersected by
a cross.
By four panes
we wait
for movement
through glass
and such resplendence
that we shed
these atoms
and find
valence
in the speaking
Light.
By four panes
we wait
for lift.
Riley Bounds is a poet and editor of Solum Literary Press work has appeared or is forthcoming in Amethyst Review, This Present Former Glory: An Anthology of Honest Spiritual Literature, Heart of Flesh Literary Journal, and Saccharine Poetry, among others.
