"Worship."
"God sits in the light above the clouds.
The angels fly nearby or play lyres
or tumble out of heaven like a storm down toward the darker
world where we live.
They seem more interested in each other than in God.
No wonder there's never been faith strong enough
to protect us from evil, when the divine messengers
themselves are so easily distracted.
Or is faith the child of evil, the mere idea of transcendence
a necessity to our lives.
Dear ancient gods, that sing in the brain of mockingbird
and thrush, that bloom in the spires of escaped wheat
and oregano, that fatten in the flesh of eye-sized plums,
tell me how do we find our goodness?
I stood long at the gates of the cathedral.
The chanting of monks leaking out,
the evening light angling in to illuminate the golden icons.
On every lintel, cornice, frame, column, niche,
some winged or crowned or a round-bellied deity watching
over our lives.
Protector and admonisher of what we've made.
I followed the worshippers, knowing
the space was made not for those who stand outside the doors.
I wanted to hear the bones of the organ
and the throats of the monks fill the cavernous vault.
I wanted to see, didn't know this until I'd seen it.
Each worshipper approach a table beneath the altar
and lift from a small bowl a spoon filled with salt.
Pour the white grains into a smaller bowl,
return the spoon to the first vessel refilling
it with salt for the next worshipper.
Each person who entered the sanctuary,
helping one who follows to be relieved of sorrow."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]