Every story says, The bottom line
is death.
Or fear. Or grief. Or
loneliness. Or bodies turned to bone,

to minerals, to ash. Which is the same
as death. But a blind man takes your hand
and urges you to draw, eyes closed, as if

from sight before you lost that sight—
Each gargoyle on each pediment, each
pillar flecked with salt and glinting

in the votive light; each buttress loosed,
as if from gravity, in brave reproach.


In response to Via Negativa: Salt.

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