THE CATHEDRAL AT CHARTRES

Here, the great arched doorway,
there, a bride so far

away she's a trail of light.
Small woman, tiny groom

set out to commune
at the end of a stone universe.

Today, all her good saints
are no more than an original mix

of dead plant and animal,
this nuptial a planned potion

of spun tulle, rose and candle smoke.
Soon she'll turn and drag her long train

back to the street.
From a doorway I peer through dankness,

the end of a hot summer morning
on my back.

Row after row of polished pews,
then there they are still:

my altared bride and groom.
The organ pours harmony

over this pageantry of humans. Smiling,
the gargoyle has overseen such plans,

these primary conciliations of man
and woman. He's seen so many

he could doze off
in his walled garden of platitudes.

Or he could compose a heart
with thumping rhythms

to inspire most any idea of grandiosity.
Snort of the bannered crusade,

seaworn sighs of Magellan,
those brief exhalations

when two or more gather to believe
there will be no future such as theirs.

First published in Iowa Review