Consider this a sacred place
where poems get told as a form of grace
where parables are often heard
and piety is silence, heard.
This temple is a form of grace
with rhythms pulsing at your face
and in your ears and eyes and mind
We see the deaf, we hear the blind.
This pulpit’s neither brass nor stone
but sculpted out of air and bone
the dogma is a beating heart
here ecstasy defines the art
Consider this a sign of god
when you hear we share a thought
our communion is the poem
bread and wine to take you home.