Dream

 

Three a.m. and still awake.

 

The night carpet suffocates

in distracted indifference

as hillsides beyond

the sky

light up as if under attack,

but hang in air

where faces form and melt,

and form again; all are known,

some are feared.

 

O, I'm standing, stranded

on decrepit scaffolding

creaking high on the inside

of this immense cathedral

of sorrows; the wind is rising.

A priest floats by, smiling slowly,

her cassock of the finest silk.

When will she awaken to notice

her mistake?

 

I am taken up to stand silent

before her ilk. I am not afraid

but curious about this conclave,

Am I here to be forgiven

or to forgive in my turn?

Time alone will tell.

 

Five a.m. The summer sun is rising.

 

Chris Hubbard

2020