Several crucifixes
a jug of oil
and one small silver jar
containing flat, tasteless bread.
White plastic collars
lying around like abandoned haloes
and a typewriter
that spitted out sermons.
And in the vault, behind iron doors
books of names, the same names
found on the gravestones
behind the church.
And in the basement a sauna
where we congregated
every Friday night
to gaze at the pit of fire.