The doors slide shut. Here, in Saint Otis'
tiny Chapel of the Swift Ascension,
Identities are canceled here, but grains of community aggregate anew as we glean what may be gleaned from human surfaces: the cloth coat, the billed cap, the brief case, the tinted cheek, the downcast eye. What have we to share or make communion of? Nothing and everything.
We are here.
Our knees feel a spirit move, but we do not kneel.
No posture of humility is called for here; no hubris animates
us here. Gathering speed, we ascend together. Overhead a counter
like a ticking calendar measures the journey.
Otis, the ungracious pastor, has borne us to a floor of stark singularity, a thought that withers blooming: Here NOTHING... NOT A THING... NO THING... matters at all.
The doors slide open. "Have a nice day."