1.

The organ resounds within        this hollow mountain,
chaos rolls forth,
                              the hand of creation
works upon the darkness,
                                            rumbling my chest,
the instrument’s       instrument.

Here so soon after
                                enfolding silence,
familiar though Parisian,
                                           the Quaker meeting
where I dozed, then       flailed awake

to noon to stumble
                                  into all this . . .
                                                            folderol,
I would have said.

2.

French burbles from the pulpit,
                                                      easy to ignore
when you get only scraps,
                                             except “Le Seigneur” . . .

But I didn’t come to cavil
                                             at les masculins et féminins,
rather, to feel       
                           what I can.

3.

The priest looks kindly
                                        in my direction
as though at a grandchild.
                                             I hear
“vous imaginez”  . . .
                                      “mystère” . . .
“aimer,” to love;
                                why not

give up this problem of belief?
                                                      Just feel—

but through the senses       there’s the rub.

For me, the spirit stirs
                                       in the trees,
in a painting,
                        in a face—

an old Quaker woman’s
                                         furrowed peace.

Maybe even here—
                                 the glass-struck light,
these greens and blues,

           gold and scarlet fashioned into . . .

Now he’s angry.        
                              The finger jabs:
“impératifs du papa.”


But then, “Enfin,”
                                the congregants turn
and give one another
                                    “la paix,”
the handshake,
                              touch
what is, what is not.

4.

Around the vast perimeter,
altars, alcoves—one unlit,
a jumble of storage
we’re supposed to glide by.

A single stone tenant
reclines on a dais,
as they seem often to do.
Some understanding has come to him.

He lifts a gentle hand to tell it
             to the chairs,
      the scaffolding and coils of wire,
the foolish bubble wrap
                                foaming from its box,
the vacuum machine . . .

5.

A donkey pokes his nose out
from a frieze called Le mystère
de l’humanité du Christ.
Providing the flight from Egypt,
he gazes at me abstractedly,
ears pricked as if he hears—
what? and wonders why he’s there.
Among many gospel figures
the donkey stands out—his head
the highest relief.
I love
his obscurity,
the way he loiters
in the now,
his sensitive muzzle
inviting—though it’s not permitted—
touch.