sunday song

The Sunday song of those who were ceased to believe
Men - waving bells are caressing the wind
Women are straining forearms walking stiffly
beneath their skirts - hiding their curses
covert lists of names
names of sons and daughters
future or dead

The priests buried in sleep on the thresholds of their churches
The young boys are gathering on the hills
throwing each other as if they were stones
Little girls are cutting and burying their curls
Half-asleep the night guards are dancing and rattling their keys
And all doors in the city remain open and the lights are crackling
and dead crickets are falling from the dead lamps

The Sunday song inverts the arrows and stops the clocks
flowing and flowing
over drunks and dishonest
making them angels
baptizing them in a holy sweet ignorance
now and forever