SERMONS

night is a congregation
of absence.

and you, shepherd
told me that old thing
about nothing from nothing.

what then shall I make of
the huffing
of this moon with ripe flanks—
a soft covetous eye
succulent with light.

you, lovely pastor but false,
have breached the
immaculate silence
I have
held for years.
our congregation
is mute as a black chain
of hollow freight cars,
gears squealing
with rich delighted voices.