Even when celebrated by a bored priest,
the mass, I'm told, is beautiful;
its center is sacrifice. Not like
an old man's reluctant giving up
but someone slaughtered in his prime
willingly, for us. So beautiful
it hurts--but doesn't help at all.
After the rite, the priest disrobes,
watches TV. The church is empty;
everyone, unredeemed and dim,
continues to light candles despite
cancer, despite scandals--why not?
Great inner fiction is always real.
Though Alpha and Omega is a myth and
entropy replaces God in the middle--
The latter is a hidden string, while
the former seems to stretch beyond
what even the inner eye sees--
Still, great inner music is realer:
Listening to Missa in Angustiis
by Haydn, I lose myself including
head-doubts, fears and injured faith--
Then that lonely trinity, silence,
entropy and I, return. When will I turn?
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