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.