Poetry: Painting the steeple

Chime’s shroud.
Veil’s net.
Christ’s covering.
Let the chips drop
where they fall.
Inside the steeple’s
dress. And the men
on their scaffolding
no one calls
a cross. Heart-
and curious,
isn’t it?
This black
meant to hold
the dust
in. To catch
the street’s
Gary Margolis, Cornwall

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