above, 
sleeping, hears. Chaos,
the noise on the ground
is deafening. I look. The print 
through the shoeprint shouts 
WAR!

Before I go 
I want to sit on the right 
hand of God, lift my hand 
to touch His face, whisper 
in His ear, as Thea to Saturn,
Order thy kingdom.

But I must have a chair made
to perfect specifications.
Before I go,

outside a storm speaks 
its mind. Words, useless, 
break from the trees. Washed up
thoughts dry in the hollows.
The sun glints over sentences
hastily 

assembled 
against the walls where slugs, 
dying, leave their trails,
silver. In the morning, 
the clarion calls 

"Extra! Extra!"
and no one

6/24/03