Читать книгу Trace - Eric Pankey - Страница 13

The Calling of the Elect to Heaven

Next to where nettles grow in the vacant lot,

Drawers, left open and empty in a dresser,

Warp, half-filled with rain. The low sky is ashen.

Although workers climbed down years ago, a grid

Of poles and planks still scaffolds the church steeple.

No one pulls the rope slumped over its pulley.

No one can recall the last hour sounded.

My breath, as I lean close, darkens the window.

Only nails on the walls where pictures once hung.