Underneath the front porch stairs
among caterpillars and cobwebs;
warm, moist dirt crumbles in your hand.
Random legs stroll past the lattice.
Inside the attic turret,
with wagon spoke rafters,
cardboard boxes, and a broken saw blade;
the air is dry, hot and close.
Murmuring doves scratch in the gutter.
Behind the rough sawn palisade
slabs wall a limestone cleft;
charcoal graffiti and
chalk dust on the butt of your pants.
Dank smell of wet leaves and cisterns.
Down in a basement corner, a cool,
concrete sacristy, black drain pipes
and boxes of second-hand clothing.
The world becomes quiet, dim and still.
If there is reverence, it is here.
