We pass in silent hallelujahs
not knowing this
presence in softness.

In the stained glass
dust that
hungers for coloured light
looking like prayers
lifted from the mouths of
men on their knees. Absorbing
the impatience that makes glory
from confusion.

These stained glass eyes to the outside,
tint and taint the
faint little piece of life that
desires separateness – to rip these thoughts from
this man like machine,
for we seem
more like the dust than the man.