— Barbara Saxton

One of many things I do
that makes no sense at all recurred
last night at Saint Ignatius Church
when all the lights were dimmed and plainsong chant
danced down from apse to nave. While pastel votives
winked in sacred recesses, headlights
from passing cars on Fulton gifted furtive glimpse
of stained glass wonders far above. I glanced
up there for you and mouthed my usual
silent vow to mine the earth for beauty
for the both of us, waiting for my killjoy mind
to argue She can’t hear you, and even if she could,
she’d sense all this eternally, when you have
only this one magic night.

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