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This is a very beautiful poem. I like the outsider perspective, which is where so many of us stand in relation to the traditional church and church service these days.
Am I understanding this correctly? The outsider finds himself feeling at home in church, coming in literally from the cold to enjoy the warmth of her voice, her kiss, their hands. But in the end, he predicts that the coldness will return, and the warmth will be but a distant sunset, like the underbellies of the koi swimming away, and there will be no more room for him in this world. Is this ultimately a sad poem?
I've followed Michael's poems for a while. I love the imagery in his work and the feelings the images give me. My favorite part in this poem is "a prayer of bone," describing the handshakes in church. I'm grateful for another beautiful poem!
I dig the "white/ dirt/ then white . . ." part. That's so what you see when walking on broken snow. Simple and true!