There are two. You say, Move out of yourself.
Write something new, and I do. Two tall tapers burn,
lit and bright. The church is dark save for ours &
the heavy or light prayers of others, red hot white votives
the small the medium the large depend on sinner's wages,
the wage of life, of sin, of desire, light the fire.
Each lifting their greyed and curling smoke to some heaven
or at least the high, vaulted ceiling. Outside
the streets wind, run as holy rivers all leading
to this door. They mirror the bony fingers of the priest
as he gently made the saw of his blessing as the light of
his hazels met the hazel whites of my own.