We laid the story out for a leaded glass window
with important personages stained in colorful pigments.
The ocean played harp strings: some
John Cage pieces adapted to withstand the salt.
The supporting timbers warped under the constant
pull of the tide, the wetness regularly drying crystalline.
The sunrise remained a hopeful hymn
no matter how difficult the notes, the harmony.
Maybe the carillon’s inactive bell hammers
formed a nesting that explained the flocks of pigeons.
As much as we claimed we wanted to know the truth,
we much preferred the mass given in Latin.
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