In certain corners
of certain cathedrals
you can softly say a prayer
or ask someone to marry you
and your words would
zip up the fluted walls
like Scalextric cars
keeping them planted
to the cambers of the ceiling
before descending
in some far-off corner
curling into
an expectant
or unexpectant ear

when it’s empty
you can hear the wind
haunting itself beyond the roof
or the silence falling
baby paper aeroplanes
noses blunted
in ragged orange-peel-swirls
circling to the floor
and sometimes
I can still hear your breathing
that is when I whisper
into the worn walls


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