Warmer than Blood
At the end of time I will rise
Like today, go about my business,
Talk to children, smile sometimes.
The sky - the real sky - shall shelter
And storm the earth still.
Black soil shall breed many satans still
Azure clouds, from which no rain falls,
Shall mass on far-horizons threateningly.
Large drops of rain shall fall, freezing into ice,
Angels will lie about their whereabouts
Clerics, streaked with tallow, will mumble incantations.
Here, the blossom-trees of stormy autumn shine
Into full, glassy pools, grain tumbles from our mouths,
Mornings sing slumber again to wakened men
Fish scatter ripples of wet delight, shimmering
Swans couple, a dog-fox tracks its droppings:
In the park, dodging the broken syringes,
On broken swings we play. All day.
The sky - the real sky -
Shelters and storms us still.
We sit and talk in the twilight.
"Who made God, Dad?" Just like that.
The trees sway, leaves tumble down, the town lights are on.