Compline

Compline

A man slips in late, a heavy ghost
filling up the empty mouth
of our shared pew. He smells wet, like smoke
and urine. I finger the blade in my pocket
unconsciously until I notice myself
noticing. He is unwashed. I am
unwashed. We warm the ancient stones
of the cathedral together, enveloped in tongues
of benediction, worrying the same threads
to death while in the eaves the brethren,
a mass of white robes and haunting
voices, cant us towards rest, bathe us
one last time. As it was in the beginning,
is now and ever shall be. We are shades
seeking shades. I finger the blade the same.

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