More on: John Hart

Everything close enough fades  

in the coming dark; what’s at a distance, 
gone.

A purple kite against the wall with the wind still in it. Above the side altars with the brass candelabras and unlit candles, purple ghosts. Purple ghosts behind the votive trays in the vestibule, too. Only the sacristans collecting for burning the excess palms are left uncovered, for now. Here stood the Little Flower; here,…

———————-Holy Thursday, adoration Headlights enter through the window like a mob ——-and, in a flash, pace the repurposed cafeteria. Jesus in the garden; Jesus in the Altar of Repose. Most of us resist ——flinching when in dim light someone misjudges a folding chair. All of us note the rain pulsing like a heartbeat. ——Then we…