on Sam Edes when he’s backslided
all he can stand, blaze orange and camo,
unwashed, sour breath, headed for
the pines, the power cut, the deer blind
before he brakes, yanks the wheel hard,
takes the turn-off he had chosen against,
he’ll still brag about the eight-point rack,
the tenderloin, but now the Holy Ghost
pulls him, at the altar rail your uncle
pumps his hand, bear-hugs him, he goes
down fast, spine of jelly, rags for bones,
brightest orange, shaking on his knees