The incorruptible saints lay still

under glass canopies

lovingly covered with silk burial gowns

they lay there dry as bones as bones they are

their skin tight around the curves of chins

and eyes sunken in and dark.

They see nothing as flesh once did

but they aren’t really there, if there is a place

the soul has passed on and through

to where all souls go;

strange and wearisome the flight

to find God somewhere not here

but in the verdant fields of eternity

under the piercing light of love

that shreds darkness like paper

and curves space-time in seemingly impossible ways.

A saint incased in crystal is not really there.

Honored finger bones and strands of hair

impart no more holiness then your own.