THE IDOLATORS
Rude tabernacle! Brick-strewn ground,
A broken house near New Cross Gate,
Where four old men, faced red and gray,
Their clothes unkempt and deshabille,
Stand in masterful command
Around a rusty barrel. A cloth
Is spread across, as on a chalice
Within which snarls some captive god:
Beer cans and bottles, Monstrances
On guard, announce old Bacchus there
(Sly urban fox, burrowing free!).
Exaggerated gesturing
In edgy argument belies
The devout bliss they find just here,
In the presence of their captive God,
The fragile inward infant calm
That cowers behind their bloodshot eyes.
1992
THE IDOLATORS
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