Member-only story
EVEN THE OLIVES WERE BLEEDING
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,
thall mass on far-horizons threateningly.
large drops of rain freeze into ice,
Angels lie about their whereabouts
clerics, streaked with tallow, 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 still.
we sit and talk in the twilight.
“Who made God, Dad?” Just like that.
answer the question please!
