Chapel Wreckage

In a resonance
the moon bled
shadows of the maple
on the doors
of chapel wreckage.
The pews floated
like boats
in rainwater.
I touched moths
in the frames
of broken windows.
The path led back
to the cabin
I left to be alone
without a reason
and without thought
of the difference.
The dark lights
smoldered
like embers in a pit
I kept to my chest
like a loved one.

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His work has recently appeared in vox poeticaThe Camel Saloon, and Flutter.

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