Cologne Cathedral: The Asylum Sleeper

I will close my eyes
and wait for them to ask why
I am not hopeful sleep will have a chance to infect

Before one of them whispers in my ear

Because this home is never empty

I am a refuge

for their fantastic pulsating bodies persistently animated
even in the silence of prayer
walking room to room
burning holes as they go
they think I am immune to pain
they think of me as their building
I have no skin

therefore I gain no bruises

I watch them hour after hour door open and closed
the hair, the eyes, the lips all the same

but each voice different
some complain and others beg and pray

but I never shout back
not a word, not a sound
they know I hear everything
when my candles flicker and light echoes

they can offend and blaspheme
and fight each-other
then loiter around my tombs trying to find me and declare asylum
then fall asleep on my lap
even then my lights stay on

outside their flags and posters pollute the skyline

the air is dirty with hatred, yet still
I manage to exhale and stay upright
the strong one at a funeral

I am their godfather
the first guardian on the reserve list with thousands of children
I treat each one equally

when my candles flicker and light echoes

they think they are safe

I will still be here waiting up

I will not turn out the lights at night when everyone else gets to retire

I am sorry
they have forgotten about my entrance fee

I am sorry they cannot bear the thought

of touching each others palms
and I am sorry I am ready for bed now
I want lights out
the candles that surround my corridors are seducing me

out of consciousness

they want to cradle me
and slowly swaddle me in smokey ribbons

blankets as thin as wafers

promising to keep me hidden
with curtains drawn I can sleep

and I know seekers will knock on my doors

With their questions and justifications

But I will sink further into my bed

their chants will be mere lullabies

I will be the asylum seeker

safe within my concrete walls

burrowed in the highest steeple

Unsure of the sound of my voice unsure if I have a voice
I would ask so many questions
why do you crave protection?
why are you always cold
and wrapped up in your coat of arms?

why must I watch your demonstration

when you can choose
to see me or turn your gaze and ignore?

I would also give thanks for your noise and distraction
because at last my nave is clear

and I can search and pry until I see what my voice looks like
the bells of St Ursula and Peter

the caves of the pinnacles and spires

the beating organ of the swallows nest

humming still until the next song

my voice is the shrine of the three kings it is medieval gold
and Richterโ€™s stained glass rainbow my voice is a floodlight

and it has fallen onto its old face

rattled by harsh intolerant winds and anti-islamic gales
the candles cannot find their wicks

and they mourn for each human whose voices

were once melodies lengthly democratic songs
the tunes came from east and west north and south

illuminating the other side of the Rhine

and we remember when you imitated my stained glass window
with a gallery of nationalities

until you didn’t

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Hot Yoga

ย This is my body

A rising pretzel

And in this position

It is not so different from salted dough

Hot in the oven

The recipe needs heat

So this bake will rise

Give it too much

It will burn and collapse

Spewing its guts over the oven rack

Which you will then spend days cleaning