The pull

I guess that they designed it thus:
Four holes in the dome, one woman
Not there to clean but stir up dust, embodying
The beam by which the morning visitant
Is struck; through another gap at evensong
It slopes to stroke the censer and the priest,

Scribing something in a language I can’t read.
Like some galactic starship’s S.O.S still echoing
In space when all the crew are dead, it carries
In its emptiness a pull that I can’t shake
And weighs me down to sit and try to voice
The ringing letters of these walls: to someone

Earlier than me, something means, something means.
And all that I can feel is the stain that I can’t see
Or care enough to make the world, as this building
Does, something gentler, more meaningful than me.