Possessed by departed saints

Convulsing in celibacy

Speaking and freaking for the Lord,

Like a cherub covering His throne

All that great furniture

Assembled in forced community

That holy Do-Si-Do

Prophetic tongues, groanings . . .


I doubt you, Mother Ann.

I doubt your revelation.

All you left are scattered souls,

Fading bonnets, empty meeting-halls,

Old innovations

In the stillness of Sabbathday.


Simple and rustic empty chairs

Awaiting the next

False prophet.