there is a gravity in the room,
too dense for vowels,
so we crease our syllables into paper birds
and release them into quiet.
porcelain hymns, a metronome homily;
we sway in measured assent
while the drywall breathes.
peace becomes cloth over unseen teeth,
ritual the liturgy
that pins us to our chairs.
tomorrow: the same cups, the same orbit
and the mass, patient,
looks through us with its eyes, unblinking