Sweeping up feathers
and broken stained glass
on an infinite Sunday,
he dabs with white sleeve
at his forehead
anointed with holy sweat.
Divine debris of all
shapes of creed meet
firmament of broom
up and down the
long cross colonnade,
echoing so true vapor
across his whisper-hushing
librarian of a brush;
articles of sanctuary
bleed clean scouring
wounds, fresh nests
of perpetual renewal
harvest colorful evils
in a shiny black dustpan
for the custodial home
of this
particular janitor
in Heaven.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem