Empty Pews

The bird is just a mess of brown and gray

beside the curb where the exhaust gathers.

Its wings are perfect, mapped in fine-lined silk,

but the head is wrong. The light is out.

I walked three blocks to the heavy oak doors

and hit the wood with a flat, hard palm.

The sound went nowhere. No one stirred.

No one came to explain the economy of feathers.

3:00 PM. The sun is a dull, brass coin.

I’m standing on the steps with nothing to say

to a house that keeps its locks so clean

while the small things break in the street.