perhaps we cannot understand—
no matter how many holy weeks
we live—the way that time must have
emptied out into the darkness
when they the took him from the garden.
we mark the days between with names
like good and holy, and know that
they are the days between and not
the beginning of whatever
comes after everything is lost.
they went back to the upper room
or went crying into the night,
one way or another they found
their way back to one another
and did all that they could do: wait.
then tonight we read the story
and extinguished each of the lights;
Ginger carried Christ candle
out of the sanctuary . . . some-
times it causes me to tremble . . .
and after Supper we went out
and sat at another table
with friends, and walked out to find the
moon like a cosmic Christ candle:
the darkness cannot put it out.