Easter Poem by Ernest Hilbert

The smoky dawn lights miles of Jersey sludge.
The route I take toward the ancient church
Is forsaken, more so than I remembered—
Lots for sale, blocks to let, and what won't budge:
Old liquor stores, strip clubs, and miles of marsh.
A song revives me after I've entered.
Still, I sag inside my chalk-striped suit of ash,
With pink at neck, a body in a bog,
Pressed down in dark by centuries of soil.
Lilies massed at altar will soon be trash.
Weak light strains through stained glass as if in fog.
Bouquets become weed beds. I'm pearl and shell,
A cur cast off and far from pit and throne,
From dawn and dearth, from brother, ghost, and son.