I am drawn to its light,
Like a moth to a lamp.
Shot from the Archer
Somewhere behind,
An arrow of fire
Ignites the columns
From within,
Like the kerosene flame
Behind stained glass.
The white flutter
Of night-chilled wings
Breaks the distance
Of inches, of centuries.
Here I am reconciled
With history, with the ancient
Smoothness of stone,
The weary laborer’s back,
And the fragile taste
Of mystery lurking
In the temple’s hearth.
