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
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