Field Altar

Somewhere past the charter bridge
The far side of the football pitch
Old enough to steer the ship
But not enough to know the wind
The good civilians' progeny
Who don't believe in anything
And yet they're seated in a ring
Blackening their offering
Smoke erupts from flesh and coal
They roll the scriptures in a ball
Burn them all, burn them all
Never felt this way before

Question for the apologists
What's revered in all of this
Does the congregation know their God won't live forever
Can the ritual resume
When the ashes are exhumed
Field altar is extinguished by the morning rainfall

Later, once the sun retreats
Their incensed skin now scented sweet
A caravan takes to the streets
An echelon that needs no sleep
And darkness barely masks the sea
Of fellow drunken sunburnt teens
Who to their eyes appear to be
The closest thing to God they've seen
They gift their flesh accordingly
With innocence and urgency
Which makes them simultaneously
Devotionist and deity

I applaud the apologists
Who revere in all of this
Without praying for a second that this lasts forever
When the ritual resumes
Field altar's built anew
Pyre alight again regardless of the morning rainfall

Young rites