CEREMONY FOR THE LOST ONES

First, be sure they are lost,
They who circle the camp
Black in the black trees,
Their faces moth-wing flutterings
Of light,
Was it there? Was it not?
These naked hunters for flesh,
These scavengers for the fat
That drips and sizzles on the campfire's rocks,
These are not lost.

Do not submit their names to the rites.
They will come forth wild and strong,
Knives high.

No, you will recognize them
By their long throats,
The long white throat of the cyclone
That comes down low and raises things up
So unexpectedly,
In the long thin throats of the steeples
Whose bells play the eternal music
As best they can,
Their throats coated with the blind
Fallen angles of time.

The lost stretch from this world
To the next, and their web is fragile.
Do not look for them.
In their presence, turn your back.
Make your request and leave quickly.

Do not tempt them toward you.
Burrow like a mole in the low church.
Feel how the father's cassock
Stirs the air when he passes.
Above you, the bats are sleeping.
As you kneel, they stretch their wings
In their sleep and cry for joy.