I once listened to the cold mosaic
at St. Paul’s dome while my father
He spoke of blood and history.
Folks tend to murmur
the wild and holy places,
to texture the roaring quiet
in which comprehension is secondary
to some sense of sanctity:
this mumbled joy we’ve ground down—
gunshot or whisper overcoming distance,
this hoof-beat and the memory
its sounding: dirt-held and
drumming close, buried pulse,
this wind and the silence as it breaks.