It's four in the black ice blue morning
and the moon ringing the silent church like a bell is the only sound in my soul
and I am the only one listening.
Oh God, why must you breathe so softly? Your sighing spirit throws itself like a ventriloquist's whisper. My perception darts and ricochets off the stonily silent walls,
off the centuries of cathedral stillness. My rising panic rages,
pleading, Jesus! How can you be so calm,
watching the indifferent world with your seemingly unfeeling,
yet perpetually bleeding
wounds?
Screaming, Jesus!
How can you just hang there
at a time like this?
I hurl my mind
against the unmoving air
until it tires
itself
out.

The stones keep staring, waiting for me to notice
that the glittering stained glass moon is winking at me,
beckoning my feverish forehead with a cool press of silver light.
The resounding pounding hammering of human anxiety dies down
stillness fills my weary skull.
God ringing my silent soul like a bell
is the only sound in the church
and Jesus is the only one
listening.