This poem is taken from PN Review 18, Volume 7 Number 4, March - April 1981.
The Building the Church (a version by Francis Boylan)(AT THE EPISTLE FOR ALL SAINTS' DAY)
The old Church is a building made of scars
The being of a wound, and then she turned to stone,
And now the dead house flashes each dead stone,
Dear veries of faith to preen our fruitless bone-
Yet somehow she has the air of stepping stars.
In room after room her brilliance dies devoured
While a light from the east side forms and grows
...
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