There’s a living shadow, a ghost
in the sacristy:
she clings to slices of sunlight
that slip through the doors.
She trims the wicks,
she dusts the organ pipes.
Alighting to the secret attic, she knows
she’ll soon be shattered among the brassy chords, the minor triads
of a Lenten mo
she curls in onto her nothing,
holding it dear
in the musty darkness of the sacristy…
<hear us, holy jesu;