I.
At the crenel’s lip where mortar forgets its name,
a wingèd silence folds the dusk into parchment.
No trumpet, no halo—only the book,
its pages breathing gold like lungs of old suns.
He reads the margin where the world ends,
and the margin reads him back.
II.
Clouds are not clouds but unstruck bells
hung in the throat of altitude.
Each feather is a vow unkept by gravity;
they do not beat, they remember flight.
Between the lines of scripture
a mountain exhales, and the tower listens.
III.
His hair is the color of ash after prophecy,
or the first snow that learned to keep secrets.
The eyes—two quiet earthquakes—
do not look up; they look through.
Somewhere below, a city forgets its prayers;
here, the prayer forgets the city.
IV.
The book is heavier than heaven,
lighter than a child’s name.
In it, every letter is a small abyss
where an angel once fell upward.
He turns a page;
the wind turns with him, ashamed.
V.
Stand long enough and the stone beneath his feet
grows wings of lichen,
grows rumors of ascent.
Stand longer and the sky forgets its blue,
leans in to learn the footnote
where eternity misplaces its period.
VI.
No name is spoken.
Names are for those who still cast shadows.
Here, the shadow is the book,
the book is the wing,
the wing is the silence
that outlives the reader.
At the crenel’s lip where mortar forgets its name,
a wingèd silence folds the dusk into parchment.
No trumpet, no halo—only the book,
its pages breathing gold like lungs of old suns.
He reads the margin where the world ends,
and the margin reads him back.
II.
Clouds are not clouds but unstruck bells
hung in the throat of altitude.
Each feather is a vow unkept by gravity;
they do not beat, they remember flight.
Between the lines of scripture
a mountain exhales, and the tower listens.
III.
His hair is the color of ash after prophecy,
or the first snow that learned to keep secrets.
The eyes—two quiet earthquakes—
do not look up; they look through.
Somewhere below, a city forgets its prayers;
here, the prayer forgets the city.
IV.
The book is heavier than heaven,
lighter than a child’s name.
In it, every letter is a small abyss
where an angel once fell upward.
He turns a page;
the wind turns with him, ashamed.
V.
Stand long enough and the stone beneath his feet
grows wings of lichen,
grows rumors of ascent.
Stand longer and the sky forgets its blue,
leans in to learn the footnote
where eternity misplaces its period.
VI.
No name is spoken.
Names are for those who still cast shadows.
Here, the shadow is the book,
the book is the wing,
the wing is the silence
that outlives the reader.
The Sunday Circle