← v10n1, Spring 2011Poetry · Volume 10, Number 1
The Hat Called Sky:
First, the firemen dressed in canvas
then the smoke scribbles dead birds
before your eyes, who can know
the arc of killdeer
from the thunder-vise of aortic cataract—
All of them as if in congregation
standing up with hymnals blanking their faces—
the dead lamp with its nib of black tongue
lollygagging the Mistress’ planet
Mars setting with a full moon over Palestine.
Elmer Fudd eating crispily an eternally orange carrot;
little blind-bling miltons
moving sideways like crabs at his feet.
All our religions increasingly unworthy
of Thee
like a stranded cat in a tree.
