Roadside,

doleful icons

glisten, listening

in the penumbra

of green

tarpaulins

A Madonna beseeches,

swaddled in blue,

eight pale replicas

at her feet, bleached

folds of taffeta flecked

with soot

Men crouch

on a strip

of cracked tarmac,

palms touching mat,

as bats slouch

toward the city

in the close-mouthed

dawn

The cathedral looms,

entreats the lagoon

with a quaver

of prayers,

its concrete regalia

made radiant

by morning 

In silken pews,

women fan faces,

bright as July,

as their lips

lips assail psalms

an octave below

a siren’s wail,

each syllable

swabbing

the stained glass

clean

Waking rituals

array the day

with elaborate intention    

until the unshackled sun

makes a wreck of them

and they melt 

into morning’s bright

                            unrest