Restored to peace
these gathered
sleeping riders,
whose fingers of cypress
turn slowly the waters.
Still wraith beneath
the ruined trees,
a hawk’s bell-like
cry
unreasons the high window.
Christ’s diaper, Pilate’s
hand towel put aside,
for the clothed dead
this nakedness
is lucid as stone.
Restored to peace
these gathered
dreaming sleepers,
over whose bodies
the alien forest rides.
And in the air
that vasts its cold stone,
as well the air of and around the root and wooden cathedral
a singing
hikes the trees.