Fingers fused by flame-burnt wax waning down
From white walls. Light holds angels dim at hand.
I wait. Linger. Watch them go before me.
I follow, slowly. They wait for me, led
In pause by our patient priest. I join in.
I could have cried. The candle-bearing
Pilgrims paced each other to the rose-floor,
Symbol for communion breaking us all
Outside the lines. North has no primate. He
Takes his own seat, not Augustine's throne. Love
Empties pride. I sign the cross on my head.
The Dean has left me here alone not sure
If I'll actually follow fellow pilgrims to bed.
The alter is left lit. My wait is pure.
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