Dean in the Silence
(part four)

Three days at the saltless table.
Guest house or chapel,
      the sum of these angles are heaven's coordinates.

Some old, some young, all beautiful
:the clock's gentle harem,
rising to her every moan and chime,
      and singing back.

And I thought prayer moved outward all this time,
a rabbit beating to a hoped-for hole.
Here my tongue is useless, awkward as a necktie.
     Naked crossbow Jesus, candles
           pin his Varga shadow to the wall;
     the cabbage's curl on my plate;
     when these black beads click I'm eating velvet --

Well.
Only the dead speak here.
I'll talk to you later.

from Round Up the Usual Suspects:
more poems about famous dead people
by Kathy Shaidle, 1992