A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
It’s another option if you’re ruling out suicide—
Ruin rents the land and vermillion limns the fire.
Wires scorch down the spines of weight-bearing walls.
Rain rusts dull as a dismal stone in gravel.
We could pull names from a cave, lob Molotov cocktails,
hug all the bastards killing each other. As prayers
huddle down in the heart’s bunker, let’s surf to the preachers,
priests and mullahs, wild with brimstone and belief.
Can’t they see we’re all The Second Coming?
Watch the sea spiral forth inside the earth’s church,
feel the vectoring in her breakers—Look—
heaven’s right here, absolute, utero blue.
Copyright 2007 Deborah DeNicola.
First published in New Verse News. Included in Vox Populi by permission of the author.