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.