His chapel fell into flowers long ago;
the city planted them, repaved the ash
dust, scoured pilasters, placed
benches and a picnic table right there
where the matchstick pews marched
headlong into the bombs.
Next to the climbing ivies, the morning
glories yawn blue and pink, a horseshoe
hung over the door below the cross
to catch its falling graces.
NaPoWriMo 13: Dubie.