Zoë Skoulding
You Will Live in Your Own Cathedral
You Will Live in Your Own Cathedral
The cathedral of sand is a storm
trickling through fingers, loose between roots,
or a single grit in the eye.
The cathedral of trees is built of mottled wings
and daubs of light on trunks or the carved
names of lovers surviving love.
The cathedral of letters trembles at the edges
of paper curling and yellowing
under the force of gravity or promises.
The cathedral of words is buttressed
against the pressure of lips falling open
on air caught in a windpipe.
The cathedral of winds whispers
through airwaves, cables or repeated loops
in the pitch glissando of speech.
The cathedral of books is on fire, its tongues
rushing into wind as charred pages
sweep up to settle in the dark, like snow.
The cathedral of glass is misted over
by the scratch of voices wearing it to sand.
