No curfew tonight, but streets empty by sundown.

Everyone wanting to be home.

Inside the church — vespers. 
A worker — borrowed from another age — with a trolley and pole

circles the square, lighting lamps.

A small bell rings. The church-goers enter the pews.
Choir rustles in. Night prayer,

sung and spoken, candles lighting

wooden rafters. Looking up, 
we’re inside the hull of a sailing ship.

Is this how others see it?

From this stone-walled city
prayer transports us halfway along the quietest coastline.

The boat sails smoothly, then founders, beached in desert sand,

just when we had forgotten recent events.
Why are the choristers walking among us?

They hobble, leaning together, eyes closed.

Will the man with the pole come back?