Sanctification of the Ordinary

The sideways light falls on the sandstone of a leaving city, tied cigarette smoke on the bus queue, the exhaling city changing mood with the rising street caves. A thin student on a thin bike is the backbone of a knife passing people so familiar with the street they sit on steps like the lounge sofa, scratching the dog laid out at their feet. Violent kingfisher blue is washed out and the edges darken, the city shift changes, those running to leave and the night shift coming in like sun starved ghosts.

I heard a voice in a language I didn’t understand say:
This is Man who wont respect mystery, this is Man who wont learn from history.

Outside the city walls a hawk sent out from the raised Fist to make what it can of it’s life, keeps flying with shouts from the Fist it doesn’t understand, signs it struggles to translate, to go around the circuit and in moments of meaning fall on the meat with fur, anger and claw, falling over the sending glove with the jesses caught in a blooded wounded hand broken open, a spread rose pieced by it’s own thorns, from it’s own root. Then with folded wings, with the promise that they wont unfurl again, give up the flight to the Father and the fist.

I heard a voice in a language I didn’t understand say:
This is Man who wont respect mystery, this is Man who wont learn from history.

Rejecting the sanctification of the ordinary, a man goes to old places to feel the years, picking up pieces of painted glass to build diffusing, distorting, beautifying windows. In touching time-porous stone it’s a sad man who looks for meaning in things to make other things meaningless.

I heard a voice in a language I didn’t understand say: 
This is Man who wont respect mystery, this is Man who wont learn from history.