No, the
saints are not marching.
Marching
in heat like this would be
a sin.
In heat like this every noonday is
a
sabbath. No one would dare to dishonor,
disinherit,
dissemble, steal or dismember
in heat
like this. No one covets or plays
false
at this temperature. There are
no
other gods. Aluminum chairs
unfold,
the only graven images
left
sitting out in expectation, a perfect
attendance,
too absolute to be seen.
No one
parks around the lot perimeter.
No
one trespasses. Its signboard singes
like
firewood over its furnace of a portico,
over
the service at which saints
alone
take their seats. How graceful
they
would have to be to march between
those
fiery chairs without knocking into one.
[Borderlands]