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Description
Pastoral

i. east'rous
twice a week we meet,
twice a week we purr, in my choir church.
we are the ones who stand
and address the sitting,
shelved on our bowsprit,
a lawn smeared over the wellnoted knee.
The gilded age is short lived, as
                Pastor seins in children from their parents.
                                Today, I respect him; he knows names
                                and directions and gravel driveways.
                                On weekdays, he is a rock quarry man,
                                the one who directs the digging
                                and the commodity chisel.
Aunt Jean bought me MY necklace, Pastor.
                                He likes obsidian. His blacks
                and whites dilute glassstain,
                redressing the boxlight commode-overs.
Today, sunday ladies pipe a grin
with the rumblebuzz of the sunday men--for wednesday,
a foul note pourdown.
                We have an agreement so content
                                it goes unnoticed. It warms in
                                the hollow of soft gum's bluedusk,
                                minichurns warmth away-in.
                Pastor is too a man. I pity him.

ii. communion
men slump over the kneeling
rail, drinking Christ.
tossing back their shot
leaving their tip

iii. nor'east'r
The man before me plays to side his anxious hair
The hopeful hand, calmly creased around
her backwaist, and outcurled into the bagfabric deep.
She tugs down her dress,
pulling drawstring taut to bowarch.
It's a classic combover.
                I like to behold prayer
One woman freshened up for God as
His hands wandered through her endtails
hair and fingers in a looming look
she churned her legs sick.
                I like to behold prayer
                more than anything else.
Mother removes her wailing thing.
Everyone turns to look.
                Public prayer the most,
                A mannerism recital for the ill-at-ease, someone
                may be watching the mass discomfort raining a show.
               (I mean, the first time I prayed aloud, I forgot
                I amen) nothing could feel better
                than to coregard a fellow onlooker, as long as it isn't
                                Pastor.

Description
Pastoral

i. east'rous
twice a week we meet,
twice a week we purr, in my choir church.
we are the ones who stand
and address the sitting,
shelved on our bowsprit,
a lawn smeared over the wellnoted knee.
The gilded age is short lived, as
                Pastor seins in children from their parents.
                                Today, I respect him; he knows names
                                and directions and gravel driveways.
                                On weekdays, he is a rock quarry man,
                                the one who directs the digging
                                and the commodity chisel.
Aunt Jean bought me MY necklace, Pastor.
                                He likes obsidian. His blacks
                and whites dilute glassstain,
                redressing the boxlight commode-overs.
Today, sunday ladies pipe a grin
with the rumblebuzz of the sunday men--for wednesday,
a foul note pourdown.
                We have an agreement so content
                                it goes unnoticed. It warms in
                                the hollow of soft gum's bluedusk,
                                minichurns warmth away-in.
                Pastor is too a man. I pity him.

ii. communion
men slump over the kneeling
rail, drinking Christ.
tossing back their shot
leaving their tip

iii. nor'east'r
The man before me plays to side his anxious hair
The hopeful hand, calmly creased around
her backwaist, and outcurled into the bagfabric deep.
She tugs down her dress,
pulling drawstring taut to bowarch.
It's a classic combover.
                I like to behold prayer
One woman freshened up for God as
His hands wandered through her endtails
hair and fingers in a looming look
she churned her legs sick.
                I like to behold prayer
                more than anything else.
Mother removes her wailing thing.
Everyone turns to look.
                Public prayer the most,
                A mannerism recital for the ill-at-ease, someone
                may be watching the mass discomfort raining a show.
               (I mean, the first time I prayed aloud, I forgot
                I amen) nothing could feel better
                than to coregard a fellow onlooker, as long as it isn't
                                Pastor.