Clark must act as taught, he thinks,
though it isn't any fun.
He wants to clear his throat, to drink,
and possibly to run.  Instead
he sits, stone still, watches a stream
of syrup-like light pour through
a space where late a shingle lay.
It slithers down a rafter, flays
off a splinter, and drips
into his sipping eyes.
Ellis' old face glistens
in its beam: sagging wrinkles wave
like a flag in the wind,
flapping from jaw to crown,
as speaking lips undulate --
but Clark is deaf to all sound.
You'd be too, seeing what he does:

The pastor's osteal innards
are taking the place of his skin.
The tarpaulin
that covers the tent of his head
draws taut over sharp whiteness,
melting away to reveal
what God wove it to conceal --

shiny enamel cloak
cast over its dead teeth,
a chattering mandible
claps at a clownish skull;
while, emerging from beneath
familiar visages, he sees traits
long submerged:  Chief Parker has
a dented chin, Ma Kent wears
a ghoulish grin, and Lana
is getting a cavity;
hymnal pages are being turned
by skeletal drones!

--     that Ellis is prattling
to a depraved community,
a rattling assemblage of bone.

Clark's new vision
has swept the chalky coat off
a picture he thought he knew.
It is an unflattering one,
an image long hidden from
dull lenses -- it makes him finally run.

Darting from the chapel...
Fleeing the mold, the stench
of an insect infested edifice...
Leaving Ma's shame and dismay
at his behavior behind him...