Body
Maybe not so much a temple as
it is a worn and well-loved place,
some old space where the population,
the many faces of me gather, return
to over time like a crowd of variant
hauntings, all wistful smiles and
flipping pages, whispers, wishes,
whistled tunes from other floors,
and the railings all rubbed smooth
by many hands, and each step thinner
in the center from all my many feet,
and such old and out-of-date fixtures
and appliances, great iron radiators,
still working, still knocking along,
the inner echo of me. And this,
my chipping paint, my fading patina,
my cracking tile work, my hint of dust,
my generations of coffee and tobacco
stains worked into the furniture.
The heavy, thick, and settled nature of me.
I know, I know, I know, but the sun
still beams in joyous slants, and casts
its beautiful geometry on the floors.
And through the windows, blue skies.
And out the doors, green grass and trees,
the great earth on which I am set.
So not a temple, but a fine place,
red brick and white columns, a place
with which I am comfortably familiar.
