In the cloister library vault

Behold the word made flesh, the flesh made thin
the thin made hungry. Furled like fleurs-de-lys
famished silverfish back-stitch and trim
through manuscripts on shining filigree
legs, as if the letters and the petals
holding their breath in illuminated pages
were lifted free and life lit in their metals.
Here is a body bearing out sin’s wages:
inside this book a thousand silver spears
a thousand silver nails in parchment palms;
When we turn the cover back some years
later, to preserve the dead with balms
regretting our neglect, prepared to grieve,
we’ll find the body missing, and believe.