These people are warts on your love feasts as you worship and eat together. They’re giving you a black eye—carousing shamelessly, grabbing anything that isn’t nailed down. They’re—Puffs of smoke pushed by gusts of wind;late autumn trees stripped clean of leaf and fruit,Doubly dead, pulled up by the roots;wild ocean waves leaving nothing on the beachbut the foam of their shame;Lost stars in outer spaceon their way to the black hole.