Dianne makes me stare
at the arch of a church window:
stained glass, leaded glass,
the stories of saints and sinners.
Distracted, I see dust-bunnies
scurry across the floorboards
as the sanctuary door opens
and a stranger’s hand crosses
herself, before taking a knee
at the second pew to invest prayers.
But it is not for the wooden god,
cross-depicted, or the glazed stories
that we are here—the light, darling,
the light—as bright sun dims
into twilight and darkens
into a night that ushers
the spotlights into their business,
as sensors invisibly flick a switch
and the white walls and ceiling
erupt with color.