of grunge cardigans, oversized sweats, and clashing plaids.
Their same self-medicated mumblecore I recognize.
We form a party to attack the corroded bicycle padlocked
to a church fence. We’re undeterred by the slow pass
of police. We batten and bilk with snickery gibberish
at the Gospel Union Outreach Wagon, and absorb
flashlight probing for coffee and beef broth
from med-school undergrads. Off the overpass,
we bivouac in the rivets of an industrial park,
where we can pull off our balaclavas and squat
beside the grates blowing hot factory air, to share
our fresh cuts of dog tail roasted over paint can.
Scanterbury Church
Wind will compound to blanch fields as bone;
twilight bleeds now like hamstrung venison.
A lakeside sharpens into jagged stone
that can cut a hoof, but nothing crosses here
where kin dissolves into chalk-dry overtone.
Who is a symmetry without bearing –
we’ve backed the liars, everything will perish.
Before and after this world, we’re alone,
while all fails from birth canal to casket.
Sun and snow will crystal-film as one.
On steeple and headstone, frost catches shine.
Who knows when the last parishioner came
to slouch at a pew in doleful antiphon,
to hear the wind beat through the rickety gate
like a skull shrieking blasphemies, and sense
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