Wednesday, April 9, 2014

STRAY

Their grey 
faces may whisper—as if
they're so sure

words—like
unclean
or
absurd!

when they chance
to glace
through dark and weathered 

indigo glass 
during service
to vaguely—see you out here
so careless;

glinting wet 
with raw bits
of early spring 
sun puddles streaking your wiry back

and just so 
unnervingly non-
specifically—nosing around

the terrible lawn 
that surrounds this little austere 
grid of such old and 
good pissing rocks 

for the grubbiest snacks,
the most pungent
of plots,
and just—digging! so fiercely

away in the bulk
of the mulch 
that they're all scared 
pretty stiff of.

But don't be deterred!
and never 

let up! your search
little 
charitable friend;

for you alone apprehend 
so lightly! 
without that heavy 
pall of understanding

that after you leave 
the tolls
of the loud dark iron behind,

out here—
its all so faint-
ly cordial,

so crudely  
available 
for simple consecration!

that it's clearly
just another—and a rather 
much more 

humane 
and—catholic kind!
of church.

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