Article: CROSS GARDEN.(Poem)

 
   Glare ice on the asphalt north of Prattville 
   kept the back road deadly where acres 
   of whitewashed crosses shaped Reverend Rice's 
   holy ground. Upstairs the stars were waking, 
   and a car taking this curve would need wings 
 
   to keep from losing the earth if a foot 
   touched the brake. It was pine slopes and red 
   clay the self-made preacher laced with Christmas 
   lights and splashed with scripture. It was his 
   nightmare not even Bosch or Jimmy Swaggart's 
 
   TV scare team could have dreamed up: scarlet 
   Barbies dangled from a gibbet painted 
   dead from sex, a Kenmore refrigerator 
   read NO ICEWATER IN GEHENNA. 
   Ab Rice was beet-faced, ...

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