Each Day a Bit More of It Dies

the church custodian is old

the building by centuries

older still

the interior air stale

as if yellow

had acquired

its own smell

mice scurry across

the floors climbing

from the hole

through which

the radiator’s steam pipe

in winter rattles up

the old man

adores his service

balances the

clerestory pole past

a gallery of shocked saints

under the constant gaze

of a choir of children

frozen as angels in glass

extends the pole

up to the row of colored windows

unwashed now for decades

covered with a crust

of city grime and dust

inserts the hook

in the brass window latch

of the left panel

gently pulls it back

pauses for

the blessing of

cool morning air

spilling down

upon his head

through unfiltered light