Grace Cathedral, Nob Hill Poem

Who keeps the keys?
Who sweeps lint over
Labyrinth, sill, steps,
And down the windy hill?
Who presumes
To launch it away,
Shake it from a broom
Above the bay?
A few hopes snagged
On each other,
Around which a ghost grows,
All dust and web --binding
Him, her, hers, his.
Who knows how haunted
This universe is?