The blue church smoked.
Stiff and blest, we shook
our cloaks out and cut
camp. It was dawn,
the sheep going left
then right in panic,
ewes trembling under
trestle tables. The feast
was spoiled—a wreck
of meat and copper.
The image of the saint
half-sunk in tallow, tilted,
and bodies, three of them,
still wearing their crusted
habits. The stilt-walker
swung in his tree.
from Poetry Northwest WEBMore by Montreux Rotholtz from the library
Copyright © Montreux Rotholtz
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.