In the realm of worship
all beings are one yet
we must be separate
in the time of plague
renouncing our tribe
letting the drums sag
no bathing in the same tub
no more rubs at the parlour
a black eagle circles the zenith
shadows hide under my shoe
shimmering butterfly
vibrates the deerskin
a crude clay talisman
hangs from the lintel
another scape goat
roasting on the spit
children press noses
to the window pane
as we leave groceries
at the end of the lane
the town permits just
one person per bench
the priest advises me
to burn this vile book