THE FINAL ACT

He takes in hand and elevates high:

the end of the world with all the dross burnt away,
the old dispensation now dust at his feet,
the untainted smooth of a chalice rim,
the red rolling orb of wine contained,
the rhythm, pouring in, pouring out,
still present like a murmur in the heart.
Grand ancient utterances soft in his mouth,
the cradling shape of lines on the page,
old craven powers are silenced at last,
tall edifices long ago crumbled to dust;
the earth groans in his parable hands
scented by mud and sex and life,
the elemental word spills over what is seen.
He does this thing, completes this act:
a lost voice whispered through a barely noticed crack.