The Fury Of Earth
The day of fire is coming, the thrush,
Will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket,
The beetle will sink like a giant bulldozer,
And at the breaking of the morning the houses
Will turn into oil and will in their tides
Of fire be a becoming and an ending, a red fan.
What then, man in your easy chair,
Of the anointment of the sick,
Of the New Jerusalem?
You will have to polish up the stars
With Bab-o and find a new God
As the earth empties out
Into the gnarled hands of the old redeemer.
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