Until congregation

Some odd pastor strolled
from a liquor store
& clutched his drink
reading it near a man
content lying there dead
or too asleep lonely
with his gnawing friends
who toted pieces of what
he used to touch
at midnight & past off
to a northern or southern
stretch of country close
to where the sun’s legs
trample dirty mountains
& billygoats on them too
asleep to notice five-million
scurrying friends fleet
of foot, & mouth, & him
there then made writ on the woods
he is lonely still like warm
pastors in the peopled chill.

Revisionary notes: “from the mouth of a liquor store…”


~ by Jeremy on June 27, 2010.

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