Has something
winged arrived?
People wait,
fierce and wary,
on their roofs.
A few cows stand
steady, heavy
with milk.
The ground rolled,
water rose,
and now the waiting.
We don’t know
that the earth’s axis
tilted, bringing
more microseconds
of darkness to each
day. We do know
shattered earth,
water where
it shouldn’t be,
longer nights,
waiting.
And questions:
Is the world
calling to be pillaged?
Calling for
the washing
away of names,
for bodies
to open, willingly,
everything inside
to be offered
without shame?
We need
a high priestess,
someone to read
the guts
of a strong bird,
to understand how
the ash drifts
up to the dimming,
darkening sky.