[Poaching the sermon]
Poaching the sermon, the hunters gather
under their lights, growing black & sickly
in the midnight wheat. The elder comes forward
& takes one out—a scythe synced to paranoia
& grim architecture. This is the welcome
we craft for the seasons, for the harvest
we see coming through the fingering clouds.
Our fists, full of clay & muzzle, gunplay & spectacle,
know generational wisdom, know the value
in learned behaviors & private councils.
The archbishop finds himself sedated & seated
in the thresher. The elder’s strength is the silence
afforded to us by the empty heartlands, the ability
to be vicious honed like a whetstone idol, the offering
that pursued us from the start, that pursues us still.
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