Notre Dame

The priest disappears into
a storm cloud of incense.
The organ player has gone mad
hitting frenzied notes that echo
against the vaulted ceiling.
Old women in Sunday dresses
sit in woven chairs connected
by wooden rods.
Herds of Americans follow
a red pompom dancing on a stick. 
They point and stare,
take pictures of gargoyles
tamed by daylight. 
They do not see the swallows
diving below the stained glass dome
dark wings tipped with night.

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Published in The Chariton Review