The squalor, and the unending hour
Are there, and nowhere:
A concrete broken heart and the infinite song 
That consoles the heart.
We are all that way.
Glorious, triumphant, immaculate
And . . .
Ignimonious, corrupted.
Art is this way:
Redeemed and redeeming
Of the squalid moment unending.
My dearest loves have been this way:
Beautiful, fresh, perfect as Easter lilies
Growing from the deserted lots
Of overgrown weeds, polluted air, and drab buildings,
Alive like gemstones
Filled with light
Filtered through the smog.  
So with God
Who places us in these corrupted shells
To break forth in unending beauty.