salt

two pale saints put their lips
to their thin paper censures,
the same smoke that shapes
heather gray haloes (and doves
if you look close enough
with half closed eye), hell
follows with.

from the side of the cathedral
(where stained glass sells it self
among burning holly bushes
in the sun) they spy across the street
at the schoolyard gate, a solitary
boy, a regular pure pillar of salt.

one ashes in the bird bath,
says "how long do you think
it'll take old boy here to lose
his savour?" the other says
"about the time it takes to
show him the glory of the
morning star, sixteen."

"my lord, man." one says.
the other replies, "cross
enough lines in salt, and it's
as seasoned as sand. save
when in the den
of the serpent."