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Poetry

The sun turning to sackcloth
means nothing to see here;
all the sheeted corpses look the same.

The moon surging with blood
equals the deaths your butterfly wings
effected while you slept.

And the stars sizzling at your feet
like Epsom salts are his way of saying
you’ve lost your chances

with time and space.
The sky will snap closed like a scroll,
and you will be left

with the black hole of God
as you hide in the small breathing spaces
of fallen mountains,

which means he’ll know
just where to look
before wrenching you back to his chest.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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