It can’t be a red-robed wanna-be bishop swinging from skyhooks
on the rote ropes of patriarchy. Too much swing for priestly history
where millennia-woven hawsers of habit veer back and forth headed
to candle lit altars. Yet the play in this painting’s sway, promises life
hereafter—or laughter hereafter—

then the bell rings
and we initiates
of Gurdjieff’s Work,
stop mid-dust-or-glass-
wipe. Breathe. Notice
the cassock, rope-belt
flair, the backswing’s
lurch in reverse like
this moment fades—
just now into the next
and whatever hooks
we hang onto arch
into the unknown—
as the bell tolls
for us to begin
“aware dusting”
again.