The dead need mirrors and so on
clear days lakes shine black.
The dead do not date since all
are taken and few are who they seem.
The dead do not use vibrators.
All of hell shakes.
On the outskirts, in the temples
desperate demons reek of holiness
The collection plate
is a piece of paper,
a drop of ink.
When the congregation lets out,
the steeples steam.
Down the road, over fences,
on Sunday rivers,
bruised children with wide faces
steer their leaky boats
to where the biting is good
and offer fish their hooks
Front page image by lrargerich.