 stained-glass poet. The poet was sheltered inside the church's stained-glass windows, not painted upon or etched onto, but flowing within the blues and greens, sun rays shining red through rectangles and squares as he swayed between the lines, the colors bathed him, never quite submerging the dusted ginger skin that became more alive as he rolled his incantations around the room. His words became a blue serenade echoing through the church's landscape. His words were alive. He offered crucifixion and benediction inside his darkly-hued poems, cutting into and then flying out of the smooth-colored geometry. Her eyes became wider as he implored us to look at the chaos. Our ears cleared as he demanded we hear the cries, and each of our hearts quietly cracked open. Thank you.