Speeding along the
Motorway Towards
the Russian Orthodox
Church, Decades after Our
Evening in Northwest D.C.
The distance hauled a beauty over all
The autumn leaves, converted them to haze
Almost, especially one tree in thrall
To oranges and yellows with a blaze
Of something gentle like a fading rose
Tint dreaming underneath them, or mixed in
With them the way the Holy Spirit glows
Beneath ecstatic, Pentecostal skin
On hands raised high at Christ Church. Frenzied calm
Takes over fallen sinners lifting up each meek
Transported finger, each transmuted palm.
They don’t want the stigmata. All they seek
Is mundane, spiritual emotions, pale
As muslin, mild as St. Veronica’s veil.