Somehow in your strange mind—
down a stone-walled corridor littered with broken glass
and alive with angry shadows,
through an archway with its heavy, oak door splintered
and riddled with bullet holes,
into a gallery cloaked in midnight and left for the rats,
and out onto a widow’s walk that hasn’t heard a footstep
in more than a century, in the loneliest recesses of your
battered conscience—
somehow, in that place,
you believe you are acting in grace.
