You are a temple
in a world where everyone is right,
in a world of private walls,
where liturgy is sung for birds
for the unveiling of faces.
Through your enfilades
psalms are flying,
and dreams are growing
from the gates of the altar
like the continuation of spring.
Here — warm bread for you, and rich wine.
I feed your birds from the porch.
The unveiled faces of mosaics
are watching, rearranging
the features of my face.
