The thin man in an ill-fitting, ragged black suit
arrived silently by night
with an entourage beyond sight.

At high noon the next day,
out on the edge of town, just beyond
where First Street veers into Old Highway
and disappears to places
no one has ever been,
the man and his Church of Truth’s
Traveling Gospel Choir
made camp.

The days grew shorter while corn rose higher,
out there on the plain.

A circus-castoff, open-air tent shaded
folding chairs neatly placed in anticipation
of True Believers on either side
of a dirty, red carpet
from the sweltering sun.

All that long, hot August
a man named only Brother
preached and passed the plate around.

Housewives and farmers,
curious children and stray dogs
came to the Meetings.

With his voice smooth and mesmerizing, 
rapturous as the perfumed haze of burning opiates,
Brother spoke Verse and Truth from memory.

Day after day, one by one, then two by two,
weary souls rose from earthly bondage
to sway bodies, raise arms, roll eyes,
and weep for Jesus
with full hearts afire for the Spirit
and sweat rolling down their faces.

And as the serpent slid by the lamb
whom lay with the lion,
the plate was passed around and around,
and around, and around ’til green stalks
burst forth their yellow treasure,
and top-heavy wheat bowed beneath
its own golden glory.

Finally the harvest ended.
Nothing was saved.