|Robert Klein Engler||
CHURCH OFF ST. CHARLES.
Katrina, no one prays here anymore.
Sparrows make a nest in the
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
on flowers. He never looks up at the rusted tower.
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.
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
It's OK. They know on their own how to live.
washes over the crewcut lawns.
St. Louis Cathedral looms up
against a clear
blue sky, as if suspended by its own spires.
It's never too early for Mardi Gras attire.
That man wears a
crown. Tourist snap pictures.
Someday they will remember the
and aroma of tragedy that draws us to this
birds of a feather who search for a seed of grace.
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
Dreams may come. At noon they pass.