Through the Eye of the Needle

How the days strobe past, 

unremarkable in a light-trashed sky. 

In the house on the hill 

the lady has forsaken doctors 

and returned to belief 

in candles and beads. 

Drips of candlewax collect like sweat 

on the top lip of hosannas and hail Mary, 

sky full of grace. 

How the lady burns as she turns 

on rich sheets. All the coins 

weigh so heavy on her eyes- 

pressing her into her grave.