Harvest

Don't seek your savior here -
caught behind his mother's skirts,
lapping up morning
from her apron
with a child's sad wisdom.
This church is closed,
doors frowning
from the rough fumes
of birch and blistered nails
burning out the faithful.
There is no redemption today,
nothing but a fresh harvest of thorns
and love carried carelessly
like a wasteland
in his pockets.