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.