Monday

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 speculations:
their spittle leaves pocks in the dirt.

Venerable interceders for God
passing bottles and judgments
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 neighbor’s yards.