Tai chi in the sanctuary

Limbs lift in the church light
            stocking feet, bald heads, backs
bent like
       marmots, like
             awkward planets,
like words that don’t yet
       know themselves.

The old. The infirm.
             The one who lost his son.
The one who once jumped
            from a bridge and lived.
The one whose body
             bent her in a cavernous hour.

The afternoon sifts
            through blue glass, a light
the ancients left. Did they know
             what we would need?

These bodies float through motes,
             themselves dust
             returning.