Issue 81, Fall 1981
Their language, Latin or King James
said it with such force. We thought
we’d tired of its riddles,
its weight of syllables.
Better we read the mirror’s face
than faced beyond the glass.
Churches, vacant as concert halls,
barely gather wind from frail voices.
Now enter a priest to pray.
Communion with the language of the dead?
Lives fulfilled for words we now discard,
who shouldered stone though never saw
the gothic arches rise: our eyes
entreat the towerless sky.