Evocation Of Palms In The Desert,1958

Bread Is The Opium Of The People.--E. Hemingway.

At Easter, palms where laid on
the table,in the church vestibule
on a morning when the only light
came from black desert flowers.

The mirage was as through prayer:
milk candles distantly spitting ochre
and everywhere the hope of peace.

The old women closer to twilight
their veiled heads bowed, trained owls,
appeared as if they already knew death.
Their fingers made suggestions with
rosaries: that there would be no water
not even a drop, that the dried palm
shoots would only sustain a rude glimpse
at a nest of snake's tongues.

What is it like to offer love for peace
like an extended collection basket with
no mention of just exactly how much
change you are supposed to put in it?
The sermon comes from a faintly
hypnotic song that burns slightly at
my ear. It is the food for meditation.
Another preacher had just lead us
to the golden door as a wiser
master craftsman.

Gorgeous statues, ears like thorns
on marble cactii, breathe to the
pitch of a waterboy's flute played
sometimes after dark and in the rain.