Brother Youngblood

He's got the thick hands

Of an aged man, but still

Strong enough to grasp

The pulpit in a fit of holy rage.

I am the last, the latest

Of the flock.

Brother Youngblood speaks:

It's gentile and assured

As the first crack of light

Between the morning trees.

His song is a surly cry

That gathers up the sheep.

He takes us out to the graveyard

Where we visit and remember

The dead: the quiet saints

In the earth now sleeping.

Brother Youngblood

Is last in line.

I believe I can live off the thunder

You place in my head:

What a storm this is-

Pulling the silt down

From cemetery hill

And covering my proud feet

In my Sunday's best.