One Place Or Another

A giant will break off from the mountain
woods and walk down to our little towns
peeling water tower pinnacles
to strike fear in us and overcome his thirst.

Fresh grave dirt piles play parking lots
to monarch butterflies somehow
working out which flower beds
they’ve unburdened of their nectar.

Sunlight falls through church windows
over the donut table and dark ring
left by a coffee mug from some
several Sundays back.

The alter boys swing incense, over
widows in their lacy gloves
with shaking hands inside them,
and the songs are never loud enough
no matter how much that old reverend
waves his arms.

A young mother feeds her baby
in the shade of some brick building
with nothing labeling it
as one place or another,
and the child cries
when the train goes by
leaving her damp breast
cold in all the rushing wind.