by Elizabeth Tervo
Under sun, the golden crosses shine When the sun bursts through the rapid clouds Gleaming in sympathy. They shine out From the long puddles in the prematurely wrinkled parking lot That lot built to hold five hundred cars.
St Elias goes dark under grey clouds The crosses rusty brass, the old-gold domes patchy with silt From the endless rains Forbidding, until the cloud sails by and she shines out again.
The Ark rises each Sunday and settles down again Furling its wings like a duck among the puddles
Nobody is parked in the lot Except Jabril’s car: it’s early morning, a weekday. He’s preparing for the next Liturgy, cleaning, tidying, In the altar.
All the same to him the clouds sailing by The sunbeams gleam and fail From the windows supporting the central dome He does not bother with the electric lights
He is in the Ark, sailing, himself On his way to where the sun fails, the moon fails And the clouds fall into silence
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