Ivory frosting gorges us nightly,
Where wolves sleep in doorways
And our comrades shoot crows
For the shock of red blooming.

And our churches are roofless
Where rats nest in kneelers.
Crucifixes are idols, gods,
Pressed to lips that mutter phrases
Better known to mice than men.

The birds whisper bright things
From their warm little hollows
Where a fire may be kindled
And the walls aren’t as damp.