Steeples

Steeples
by Corey Harvard

Steeples
There must be hundreds of them
putting holes in the clouds
around my house.

They are pointing --
a choir of ivory fingers
declaring without volume,
suggesting without words;
street signs for lost sheep
like me.

How many times
have I tried to be found,
knees pressing the face of the earth,
swallowed in the shadows
of these enlightened pillars?

Oh quiet God,
If only I could open my flesh
and count the grass stains
on my soul.

If only I had a ladder long enough
to plant steeples on the edge of the atmosphere
and point them down
to earth.