Saints

When air hangs in august trees
like phlegm to dying lungs,
sticky skins thread sullen streets
sweating Red Dog Rye;
old men, young sons piss out their purpose
in vespine knots, mouths full of shit and speculation.
Their spittle leaves pocks in the dirt.

Venerable interceders for God
passing bottles and judgements
behind taprooms festooned with pellitory.
Sunday tongues hum around residual teeth,
hackles rise above the somebody's fault line
and the saints lay down their good books;
gather up tindered principles, traditions like light-wood-

they bank them at the feet of crosses
set to burn in their nieghbor's yards.