There is god,
and there are doorknobs
I wash in grief
our clothes and dishes
crescents spilling
the last sand of the century
the Acolytes in smocks:
Elise, Eleanor, Evelyn
cross a field
magnifying
iris bluster and
tired sewn patches
a red thread lilting
in their crux
lavender drips
older than the booming
grand door
no bonfire can begin
without the bones
of the dwelling
for the eye is the arch
iris to the vault
pupil forth
unearthed
sunken geometry
summons collapse
we pause
the clearing gathers
darkness surrounds
Amassed; crystalline
debris on my weathered stone
What jettisoned myth
toils in the wake
of synapse?
What fountain calls
before the black house?
There is god,
and there are doorknobs