addie bundren’s posthumous sermon

In a pew you can’t recline much;
not much leg-room either.
Soon they’ll be a few folk walking the aisles
like stewardesses on a plane, but for now it’s the
(((wooshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
of words like pressurized air motorin’ past ears
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
…stormin’ the shoreline of every sound
wooshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
,,,to assault them,,,to erode them all.
shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh)))

Some words are “just shapes to fill a lack”—white-noise—
words without color
,,,words never felt
,,,over-said words that disappear like contrails miles behind the lectern

(there’s a majesty in the clouds, though;;;clouds fill up to break loose).
It’s writ “the word became flesh;” words that don’t
incarnate ain’t no good words;;;they just
words
without no fillin’;;;words which mock the majesty above.