That Other Congregation
The oldest congregation lingers here,
No white haired ladies with a blue rinse in
Coiffures among it. Men beside this pier
And that repenting middle-aged and balding sin
Are not a part of this community.
The congregation and the choir are made
Of hallowed light and its immunity
From sin, stone carved with stained glass scenes arrayed
To splash in lingering form across the cut
Saints always singing silently. The gold
On painted icons is the only strut
Among these worshippers. They are cold
To touch, these idols, but they are the form
That does outlast the singers who are warm.