synagogues
Perhaps they do not burn at all
these synagogues. I think they do.
I could be wrong. The sky is clear
towards the west. New life waits
calm beneath the storm. High
fields of corn these seven years
and nothing more.
three fingers
to a hand without an arm.
These lines from which we
have withdrawn, make other
boundaries, slow like Catholic
mass, our lives, in secret
or alone.
Midsummer orients itself by prayer’s
own telescopic sight. The thought
of sanctuary kills. (Perhaps they burn
for some, not all.) Anonymous,
our knee faith jerks and misdirects
its witness to the stalls.
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I cannot decipher what your poem means but I sense that there are some subliminal messages you are trying to send with this interesting piece.
Ron