You have knelt here before, but not
for years, and you hang
suspended as if by strings,
one hand raised, ready
to complete the cross,
head, heart, holy ghost.
You fold complexly, as a paper crane
might, prostrate in the transept,
and your breathing is a swingset,
pausing weightlessly at either end,
reciting a tiny prayer that this time
you will come full circle.
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