This morning I woke to helicopters and church
bells. From my window I watched the heavy blue
police birds circle over and back, over and back
against the gray sky which moved in unobtrusive
opposition—whatever happens below,
what blood-handed humans hide, it’s a matter
of inconsequence to the large, cloaked order
of clouds untouchably processing—while inside
our building Deacon Holness emerged
from the apartment next to mine in his suit
and tie, thick eyeglasses tinted against the light
of evil, padded shoulders lifting across our street
toward the church, as if belief could make a man a cloud.