“Psalms,” New Era, Sept. 2000, 22
Psalms
Poetry is written every Sunday,
sitting on an uncomfortable bench,
keeping uncomfortably still long enough
for brutal honesty to hit its mark.
Remission becomes so complicated a word.
Simplicity survives only in young men
passing out emblems of the body and the blood,
and David seems so much closer than Gethsemane.
Photos by Elsa Bunker