SUNDAY, UNMOVING For chorus of zero voices The congregation will not rise. The congregation will not sit. The congregation is the floor accepting one pair of slippers like an offering no god required. Here is the sacrament of the unticked box. Here is the gospel of the flatlining graph. Here is the body, still warm at seventeen degrees, doing its secret ministry of nothing. Let us give thanks for the wind that moved three hundred and sixty degrees around a person who did not. Let us give thanks for the clouds that broke themselves in half so we wouldn't have to. The pendant records no life today. Good. Life does not always wish to be recorded. Sometimes it wants to lie on the floor of its own absence and feel the planet turn beneath it like a bowl on a wheel, still wet, not yet anything.