to the very top of the oldest steeple,
the one made of decorative bricks, highest
above el desmadre de la calle,
the old man climbed
and put a handcopied bible to be kept
closest to his Catholic God.
Now the cover of leather is cracked
in the shape of the sunlight that pushes
through the small uncleanable windows.
It is a bright room with a crucifix
on top that doubles as a weathervane
letting the congregation know which way
the holy ghost is blowing across the
worn smooth bricks of la plaza:
arms carrying plastic buckets, water
from the fountain, a white dove, an old man’s
cane, a begging hand waiting for metal
faith to find it.
Sacerdote stands in the ornate door
of his church while his congregation leaves
mass like a river parting in ebbs and
currents around him, eyes on the cane.
Eyes on the dove. Eyes rise to the steeple and hands
make the shape of a weathervane on their chests