Squint through iron grilles, past empty pews to where, before the altar two nuns prostrate themselves on the floor until they rise at the end of an hour, so another two can take their place. They keep such vigil around the clock when they aren't braiding their voices in a choir, or emptying a box where the faithful have put prayer requests on slips of paper. This is what they do: perpetual adoration before the monstrance, its sunburst rays of burnished gold; its clear window covering a lunette that makes a little shrine for the consecrated body. Outside, the lance-like winds carve their own nests in the world.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.