an excerpt from At Chartres
At Chartres the saints and apostles walk not among But just above us. We might touch a hem, so close, Soft rippled black with the air of Paris. Ash has clung And settled on a smooth brow, straight nose, Lips so curved and full we know Nothing will erode or decompose Their cool compassion, the perfect ratio. Only a glance strikes out of stone As we pass under flights of angels that flank the arch. Stranger and stranger, nine ranks toward the throne, They carry the nebulous bundles we could wish To bless, our souls bare before skin, hair, nail or bone. Walking away we're awkward, made of mud, As if we were rock and they robed and winged in blood.
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|Title Annotation:||IN MEMORIAM|
|Publication:||The Carolina Quarterly|
|Date:||Jun 22, 2010|
|Previous Article:||Balancing act.|
|Next Article:||Noli Me Tangere.|