Sunday Sermon

kindly air big mouthing every throat lungs suck until drunk maggie has gone shopping with alexa they back and forth with girlish glee while songbirds listen to the electronic voice of god aunty agatha went for a naked moonlit walk the racoons began to chatter like old men it was a fairytale ending for her and now it is a sunday morning a day to talk to trees and not listen to the words they say as if we were all in church brown walking boots already smeared with grassy puke winter bones are showing up like fingers they point to a cracked pot on the surface of a new more alien moon