They congregate in rows –
twos and threes
and some perching lonely,
on the cracked concrete curbs
lining the neighborhood.
They bow their heads,
or stare forward, or murmur
in tongues. Some only breathe
in the incense of our dust, breathe
out another prayer
for those who no longer breathe.
I know it –
the weariness that makes all the world
a pew, all the sky a sanctuary,
every corner invocation.
We have long
desired to come to rest
in the house of the Lord.