A Sunday has been prepared. Eyes water,
soon lower, downfallen from lofty resolution,
weak to the sweetness, lust for the smells,
lost in gluttony. Twenty of us gather,
so the forty-five Dixie plates are strident
affectations from where we were, the places left
behind. An informal line of ex-trustees,
luxated from former communities, put out by
careless words and the lack of intentionality
in action. The symphasis of individuals becomes
a heavy cup, held by shaking hands and equally
shaky voice, for fear of poor word choice.
Broken pieces can form the most intriguing pottery,
and we have come to taste the broken One,
energized by hurt and hope, drunk with common sympathy.
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