In the morning we walk to the chapel.

In the evening we go to the concert.

When the bell rings, we hurry to supper,

Bless the bug juice that we are served.

In the woods, an empty A frame,

She can’t cook like it is in heaven.

In the craft shop carve and paint a totem,

Half a world from the camp of Christ.

Circle tentels against what is pleasant.

Name them after twelve lost Indian tribes

Who were killed off, converted or exiled,

Adam’s heirs but not the chosen.

In the woods, the sinless boys ran,

Trumpets sound the songs of last judgment.

Worn by the beast, the crown of the bone man

Adorned by the angel of death.

Work his fifty for two weeks in July.

Work his fifty for a score till he dies.

Wash in the lake. The soap floats at his waist.

Find the bathroom behind black trees.

In the woods with reservations,

He’s waiting for a resurrection,

Shut in at night by the double Dutch doors

Without a breath of heaven’s breast.