Oiling

Oiling 8/12

The little candles tinker in the dark of Westminster
Each a hope-prayer against something that could fill the room
            stuff out the boxed seats            parade by Mary, Queen of Scots’ cinder block
And in the font the old hands are dipping
The folds of skin smoothing with held waters

After a storm the potholes become just as mirrored as the rest

These folds are running aligning themselves and pressing
            they are wringing out themselves over the basin
In the shadows of flickering red old skin is onion-skin is paper in high illumination
Over the room the ceiling arches in bowed eyebrows
            each a painted expression of surprise            awe