LAST ACT FIRST ACT
And, finally, an apocalypse.
Blood sky, bone wood,
unstrung harps, lights burnt out,
green a memory no mind can hold
amidst its general fear and the purple onslaught
of what comes next --
-- the Sunday matinee
of thorn-filled crib and hopeful relics dredged
from a red muck of want
O come, O come,
O child who seems to sleep,
but, when we stand from our prostrations,
who also stands,
stands upright and clings to a strafed wall,
eyes shut against the blast.