I myself have not been inside a house of worship (other than a few of those enormous retail establishments in which the works of Mammon are celebrated by good Americans) since a visit to the venerable St. Andrews Roman Catholic church in Pasadena, as part of a self-guided tour of local architectural wonders required of all students enrolled in Richard Rose's History of Architecture class at Pasadena City College. That was some 35 years ago, and no service was in progress at the time, the afternoon crowd in the echoey stone sanctuary consisting only of me and a pair of elderly Hispanic ladies who were quietly praying in front of the alter. Though I enjoyed seeing the building, which is a near-replica of a church somewhere in Italy, I didn't feel especially righteous, or blessed, or salvaged (saved?) by the experience. I think I'm just not the religious type, the way some people get no kick from wasabi.
Anyway, Sunday is about over, and although I have nothing to say about it except crap was it hot, I feel compelled to write some sort of journal entry to attach the verse to, so this is it. I hope everybody is having a nice pandemic summer so far.
One Time the Great Spirit Moved Over North Carolina in the Shape of an Exquisite Ballet
by Jennifer L. Knox
Andy and Barney are dancing
in a field of green grass and sunlight.
That doesn't sound like much:
"green grass and sunlight." But
trust me. It is—really—and lovely.
The grass up to their knees waves
like a waterbed whenever one leaps past.
Stuff flies out of it: little orange
things with wings, white puffs,
pinholes of no color rise
from the green streaming blades.
And the sun, going down as it is sunset,
veils the frame in a golden hue and glows.
They look happy, young, and well here
dancing their Dance of Grass and Sun,
of Uniforms Pressed and Tan.
One arm reaches to a cloud passing over,
one foot springs off the earth, stag-like.
Do you need to know exactly
who Andy and Barney are?
No, but I will tell you they are
policemen, from a town
where policemen are so full
of weighty grace, they take to the air
like trout hauled up on a silver hook
that minds its time as quiet
as a burnished, bulletless gun.