Church sign, lit in sickly yellow beam:
it cried. Not to me, whose heart was settled 
as a stone is settled–so cool to the touch.

Though I still picture the writer
at night, the translucent
letters sliding like a sinner’s cards
through fingers. I imagine them peek
at the board, its holy luminescence,
and making this plea writ. What does it mean
to change a heart?

They walk back into the dark
church, empty-handed again, head full
of something. Maybe their purpose,
to strike water from a stone like Moses
or to shepherd some great flock?

I reckon with words and cannot guess
their meaning–just saw them illuminate
the night–one night–a kind of offering.