Sunday

The sky is Easter blue. The wind is March.
The Sunday clock primps its religious beat
To the bargain-sale precision of a starch
Bright sun upon a purple bonnet. How
The transformation came about is still
As paradoxical as solstice heat
Glistening upon an icicle. The flow
Of nylon passes and the temples fill
With style, and in the stained-glass air the soft
Bach music ripples from the chancel loft.

The symbol of the blood is never worn
Conspicuously in this conspicuous spring.
Plaited all in green without the thorn
We wear a bright superfluous attitude
And twist upon the minute of a cramped
Embarrassing prayer that leads us like a string
Through the dark wood into a darker wood.
For the first heavy sepulchral stone stamped
The mind with cavities, from which each year
We lift a bright and yellow-dripping fear.