St. Agnes Cathedral, Detroit

To crawl into the belly of a whale

before the night’s heat has refused you

        To smooth your fingers

along its marbled flesh

and flirt with erasure, kiss

wounds of rubble and brick

        To praise and praise and praise

stone until it’s flush with graffiti

        To clear a slim path,

from fallen glass, and part a ruined veil, then sit.

To turn your hands into brushes and gentle out the wrinkles,

in your hair, in your dress.

        And only then incant a small confession,

each word a spare and steady motion.

A white glove under ash.