The latest dilapidations occur
as we pose in church mouthing
hymns no longer harmonious.
A stained-glass window flexes
but miraculously doesn’t break.
A couple of organ pipes bend
with the pressure and suggest
the overcooked pasta served
at a typical church supper.

The hymns peter out. The sermon
throbs like a toothache. Men
slump so badly their spines crack.
Women stare straight ahead, hoping
the oxygen doesn’t deplete.
We almost never attend, but
today began with a stutter 
of crows and a threat of red rain.

Easier to blame cosmic forces
than to internalize every symptom.
Simpler to speak the forbidden
name of the deity than rupture
the sky-dome with our screams.

Although the organ hasn’t played
for the past half hour all its pipes
have noodled to the floor. We fix
our gaze on the preacher. His crimes
are public knowledge. The sermon ends
with a door slamming somewhere else,
sealing off a dark room forever.