November

Issue 38

He built a city under the stars, mighty vessel of stone, glass, blood and thought, to entice the divine to earth. I wandered in his lanes of stone and dream, to witness the partings of the veil. He and I stood together only once, as he swept from the lobby of his city’s proudest tower, and paused, where I was standing with my hand out.  No gracing my palm, alas, but I saw, deep in his eyes, the fragments of the stars he had captured.  He looked up, and in the mounting night clouds, something was there. Looming figure, painted in the sky with rude, primitive strokes. He thought it was tamed, but when its shoulders lower, it will descend in a pounding burst, to wash clear all memory, and leave the naked earth.  For just one moment, he and I, architect and witness, glimpse the fruits of his labor, there in the gigantic night. When it starts to rain, I beat it, down to the river’s edge.    Under the bridge’s first span, it’s mostly dry, if the wind is kind. An arch of concrete, vaulted roof, with no walls. There are glowing figures, striding out over the water.  Wingless, their heads bowed in the rain.  Their flesh is luminous, or is it just the lights of an old tug, near the opposite shore?  No, they see me.  Their eyes are mild. More than just the storm had answered. My own cathedral, gentler and within yours. Within it, there is no need to hope, like you in sudden fear, that the sky will close.