Chapel Robert Beveridge Footsteps echo, grow. Sound surrounds. Fills the nave, the choirloft. Footprints left in dust as if on a treasure map. There is nothing material here. All was taken away when the church was closed, all, save the pews, the altar. What is left are beds, now, for families of raccoons, or temporary lairs for the odd lynx or panther who happens by. The air is heavy, still. Kicked-up dust floats insensate, unmoving in the multicolored light of St. Joan’s conflagration. This place does not say “kneel”; rather, “reflect.” I lean my elbows on the altar and do.
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