The Confirmers

The saints are gathering at the real places, trying tough skin on sharp conscience, endurance in the hot spots- searching out to define, come up against, mouth the bitterest bit: you can hear them yelping down in the dark greeny groves of condemnation: their lips slice back with jittery suctions, cold insweeps of conjured grief: if they, footloose, wham up the precise damnation, consolation may be more than us trudging down from paunchy dinners, swatting hallelujah arms at dusk bugs and telling them pure terror has obviously made them earnest of mind and of motion lithe.