this surfeit of sun connubial among the hoarfrost and blooms, an aftermath of bedsheets.
Distance has become landscape: our intimate histories slated for revision.
Morning is a verb our mouths meet to conjugate into psalm.
The apocalypse won’t come in the manner of four equestrian enthusiasts who favor spandex over riding breeches and in bad need of Breathsavers or by way of a corporate barbecue as set forth in Revelations.
It will come on a Sunday morning courtesy of a woman whose hair is a silhouette dance of medusas, preaching in downtown from an unmarked pulpit.
The motley congregation assembled in the square seems to profess she is right by default, as pigeons are the only infidels in attendance and the occasional
nod of consent bumps a naysaying fly off its halo trajectory Fire-and-brimstone are not just metaphors, she assures this hapless coalition of the not-quite willing and the terminally oblivious.
Nevermind that the infernal machinery of the 20th-century has been vanquished.
Nevermind what the sky, cream-clouded and blue as a rapture of waves this morning, is trying to say.