This morning the bells of Saint Mary’s
didn’t ring. And the asphalt still holds
puddles and plaster from the burning.
In August, morning is the only cool time
on Union Street, the only time you can walk
barefoot without blistering.
Last night as the steeples churned out
black tower clouds and paper-thin
ashes like snow, we all gazed
as our memories and confessions floated
to the ground. Even Curtis, who spends
everyday painting the street centerlines
with a dry brush he keeps in a shoebox,
stopped to watch parishioners enamored
of the flames—Mr. Kopetsky the one-armed
custodian and Mrs. Reshetova,
with her lemonade and oatmeal pie.
And the Archbishop performed a vigil
just as the wind sent the blaze onto
the motherhouse. Last night I dreamed
the city was overtaken by dense crimson
vines—overpowered by sprawling
clematis and ivy, engulfed with daffodils,
clusters of yarrow, delphinium and violet sage.
This morning as I walk to Paul’s Supermarket,
the men in front of Arthur’s Resale are throwing
cards as usual, and dipping their neck
towels in ice buckets full of Blatz.
And you can still smell the charcoal in the air
as displaced starlings search for new homes.