Late Saturday afternoon, late winter, they sway and clap, not wanting to let the chorus go, and when their teacher asks,What are you, dead?
[…]
Sunday settle of the coal-silted fog the damp cinders couching our slow steps up the hill to their farmhouse Pumpjacks to the east nodding back to the earth
Crucifixes crowbarred from the apses left their shadows, faint or imagined: a false translation, like the Bibles missionaries stacked along the driveway.
