I said something I can’t recall
in the pulpit of the packed cathedral.
How solitary, wrecked, and incorporeal
she rendered me at the altar on which
I prayed like a man and failed. To which
I return alone on Tuesdays with pure
desire to rise like a soul with her
into the ether of the clerestory.
Turn transparent and blue in the glory
of her image in the window that grows newer
with age as the light shines through her.