The sun will be turned to darkness and
the moon to blood before the coming
of the great and dreadful day of the Lord.
I’ve seen enough of your creation, Lord,
its absurd conceits, the sins of idle men
ripened to gnashing teeth. The winter wren
has built its nest elsewhere. We have ignored
the image we were made in, the divine breath
that stirred the clay. Why must you tarry, Lord?
Sound your trumpet. Raise your flaming sword.
Remind us what it means to fear a death
and a return. Your bride has taken to whoring,
and, like the cheapest whore in Chickasaw,
she makes a killing—behind your deacons’ doors.
It is time, Lord. The pale horse is snoring
in its stall. Strike a match and light the straw.
And not because it’s my will, Lord, but yours.
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