← v10n1, Spring 2011
Poetry · 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.