There is no entrance charge
to the temple of what was once
revered. It is chill-dark.
In the corner, Jacob’s ladder—
retracted now—
leans abandoned, blackened
beneath St. Peter’s toe.
Only nostalgia vainly thrives
against sterilizing dust.
I light another candle and walk
out in the asphalt citadel.
Here
the lifeless guard every stone horizon,
the clean busily manufacture
fresh, and the finest
gather to show purpose.
Under a crystal chandelier
you tell me
‘In life we can never turn back’.
Elsewhere
a muddied cock crows thrice and
still the leaves grow.
What were we thinking?