Mark is making a temple
out of blocks.
He is standing the world on end.
Cube by cube he makes a
door and a wall,
an entrance to the other side
of where he is.
Where God sleeps.
Where the past is now,
the future the candlewick of time.
Where do the temples come from?
Already completed.
Like a spider making its web.
A bee its hexagon.
The sea, its shell with variation.
So we are priests.
Is Mark a mystic?
A holy man unfolding like a flower?
Or is Mark a reader of plans?
An architect building the dream,
ground up, of the world?
A place to see God,
and the everlasting inside us all.
The wisdom of a child.