Processional

The aching saviors seek their way,

designing wounds upon the eye,

across the salty grind of day-

immortal cripples filing by.

They, rising on their falcon-feet,

attend three trees in secret clays.

They, sought for crucifixions, meet

Gethsemanes, stern forty days.

The first long tree has lusty fruit.

' They sink snug teeth into the skin,

acquaint the sage with sensual loot,

are frothy in their antique sin.

The second tree provides dry rolls

of pith for tongue's pathetic prize.

They raise with Lazarus molded souls,

turn back their great nostalgic eyes.

The third tree withers in a husk;

rot's apples lie in cobweb-stain.

Here empty brain-pans, there a tusk

announce that they will rise again

and suck the tree-fruit each by each,

make miracles, then thirst, then die,

cause Virgin-miseries that teach

a wary wisdom to the eye.