.ABANDONED CHURCH OFF ST. CHARLES.

Since Katrina, no one prays here anymore.
Sparrows make a nest in the rotted belfry.
They fly in by the broken stained glass windows.
Why grace moves on, no one knows.

The dry leaves of a live oak punctuate the clear,
blue sky. At the Bed and Breakfast across the street,
the gardener looks down as he sprinkles water
on flowers. He never looks up at the rusted tower.

Every evening, about 5:30, a flight of crows leaves
the Quarter for a roost by the river. Their night
wings row the air and they call their one song.
To wish that a house never fall is not so wrong.

.NOONTIME BELLS.

One after another, sparrows hop at my feet.
They are wise in their own way to expect a
morsel from me, but today I have none to give.
It's OK. They know on their own how to live.

Sunshine washes over the crewcut lawns.
St. Louis Cathedral looms up against a clear
blue sky, as if suspended by its own spires.
Look! It's never too early for Mardi Gras attire.

That man wears a crown. Tourist snap pictures.
Someday they will remember the strange tug
and aroma of tragedy that draws us to this place--
birds of a feather who search for a seed of grace.

I try to clear my mind of how a late memory
of him came last night in a dream. I held him
the way sleepers on the lawn hold the grass.
Dreams may come. At noon they pass.