The half-light of half-learned lessons cuts us off from elders of the sharp-edged pagan years. Outlined by evening sky they walk toward prayer, leaning over their lamps. By flickering light they stand in corners cut in damp earth holding each other tall.
Old story told once more, we rise from cushioned pews, let fall each other, uninstructed in the catch of shifting weight. Shadows of wistful wishes wax in failing light. The dark is out there. Who can teach the bending into it?