Nothing so
incongruous
to the marriage of stone
to graceful arch,
to the union of light and colored glass
than this fog-horn blast
shifting the floor beneath us.
It’s as if the pipes have gas,
all sanctity blown
as the docent apologizes,
her voice high-pitched
straining to explain,
“Monthly repairs,
so sorry for your visit,
must be done”
and then some.
We have come to receive,
but not these bullfrog tones,
Somewhere a man in dusty coveralls
is oblivious to our cringing
as he kneels to the coupling
of expectation and reality.
He is measurement, science and scale
where we would trust faith
to hold dominion.
Panes stutter
and the docent apologizes again,
like Oz, she begs us
to pay no attention
to the man behind the curtain.
Bass swells the ground
as somewhere
muscle comes close to securing beauty
and a tightening wrench
tinkers towards the holy.
