The brief procession.
The crude gray church that pegs the bend
Of a river. After brisk december air

Smoke-white walls,
An artless trim of brown,
Windows unadorned
Except for what of fields beyond
The eye can trace on dusty panes.

Chafed by fiery oration
That rains on salamandered ears,
Naked bulbs retreat
From slaking so much darkness, turn
To dalliance with lilies and a casket
Textured to the dime-store toy that reins
The impish hands of a child close by.

Spirits are abroad in the slintery pews,
Restless in the drafty aisles, will not
Give way to order of service, to such
Superfluous mourning;

One, a burly chantress with a song,
Balks the yokeless choir that grates
The lily-scented air;
Her song is news, begisn the dispensation
Of the blues.

Alvin Aubert