I shall go back to church
This Sunday to find
The one who waits,
Back to the impossible,
The cave, within a cave,
Within a cave.
The sweet Zombie
Trudge of the undead,
For only by dying
May we be born again.
Through the register
Of stone they will come
Through the door like
mouth of God.
Where the choir assemble
Skittish as if herding
Upon some savanna
Before processing up
That aisle of dreams.
Will the upturned Ark
Hold their song
Like summer berries
In a reed weaved basket?
Will the voice of holy clerk
Be ballast for my soul?
The search party awaits,
And the hunt is on again.
