Shriners

a bowl for libation, obeisance
for the sweet oil
and the soft run on skin
for dark wine
and the throat burn

candles guttering in the
silence as the line of 
bodies forward moves toward 
the shrine with the 
white-robed priest

and the silent, deadly stone stretches 
over their heads into 
darkness, the polished 
precious blue cresting 
the curves

feet shuffle against the 
polished floor, sandals 
creaking - the priest is 
quiet but resolute

dips his finger, touches
raises the bowl, progresses
the lips kiss the polished 
rim, and the body 
withdraws

_/// a bowl for 
libation, obeisance and the
people ranged in lines 
coming for heart and word 
soft pooling light
silence

previous poem