A sort of church

I sit with these my friends

and my enemies too, and we

commune together

in a sort of church of

ideas unfolding and 

feelings expressed:

from anger to laughter,

and dread to joy.


This church is godless

but god is ever present still:

the god of verse that sings

for me, the god of holiness

in human form—the devil

is there too conjuring up

an evil abject thought—

and I sit among them 

smiling as the worshippers

contend and wrangle,

and spy heaven in a thought,

finding the words sublime, and

swinging the ironic sword.


We sit in rows and we

move among the shapes that 

are sacred in this space,

and we find a way to be together,

even if there is discord;

and these, my enemies and my

friends, hold hands and sing,

tugging and pulling for sure,

and wrestling, ever wrestling, 

with this most human of things.