The Dead in the Ponds of Evans Chapel

Bronze and blue, the metal against the sky
the angle of light reflects nothing on the day
tired light of the season’s wane
faded footprint leaves grate, grate, go grating across the concrete

stained black
by age?
by substance?
the water too dark to drink

three circles intertwine in glassy imperfection
beneath a toppling cross frozen in stone
a path of passive flowers still bloom and wet the ground with absent petals

the albinism of ebbing autumn
the sun hot now cold in shiftless shadows

alchemy of the soul first
the rest soon follows and falls
treated
and there’s life
despite the treatment
the old, old offense

the ancient dusty chapel
where once I heard the voiceless ghosts sing

memory

but then was winter
but then the patchwork buildings lined the cobbled streets
where ladies wept at night
of the night
their tears

the brick stone and solemn
academic and strictly nonsectarian
windows dully lit and stubbornly opaque

before they boxed up the stone-bricks
and carted the whole framework
to another empty commons, another common name
academia

the folded formed chapel a late relic though it looks older
a stark, harsh, dominating name

graves of concrete
graves of dusk

they filled the dusty grave with water
drowning go down

water reflects the autumnal arrival of winter’s outline
a hazy cloud in the distance draped
dancing, a loose dress of stuffy down

and if this paragon ceased to be
would the crosses melt a little more?
would the pick-lock whittle away
and finally!
finally this church would be open
to all poor-poor sinners who can and do
admire this creation
this supposed tapestry
that must be paint-by-numbers

stay out too late
stay up too late

but quiet
straining silent intonations now
a shadowy fox in the soft brush-up of moonlight late shifting evening
skating away in the half-formed wasteland and the chapel idling dark

the false picturesque water garden cascades and continues
in streams
in fountain waterfalls of foamless form
a curving arch of simple architecture and the water tamed
growth and green rising suddenly from the back

but it ends here

abruptly, succinctly
against the painted windows
the simple solid wall
red with sunrise
its true color at night
when all that remains runs down behind his peak to sleep to lie to soldier the dreams of the unknowing, unfeeling many and the voiceless few
but then it was winter

hands reaching upward
upward

looking into the depths unknown
reflecting of a footstep
crossing over, to overstep
I fear death by water.