Nesting

“Every house is a missionary. I don’t build a house without seeing the end of the present social order.” — Frank Lloyd Wright

Each stone a prayer. 
Each beam a hymn.
All the windows, all the glass
stained and unstained
framing rebel scriptures. 

The table in the foyer
holds the tabernacle.
The doors, the moveable walls
of sacristy and nave.

When footsteps
echo in the long hall upstairs,
angels imagine their wings
have unfurled.  Then,

their wings do indeed open
as the kitchen rings with 
sounds of feast.

Outside
the world’s 
functional, 
barely —
inside, 
the palm of paradise
presses the carpets into place,
smooths the tablecloths,
makes straight the way.

If the world is to fail
before it reforms,
let it come through the door
as a beggar
and be reborn
on the warm wooden floors.