Smoke in the Place of God
A shivering whoosh of wind, sweeps across
The valley of ashes; the sky ignites like an apocalypse.
“Oh, please,” cries the maddening crowd, “let it be the end.”
Silence from heaven.
March sings his villanelle of summertime, orchestral swells:
“Smoke climbs into the place of God
And we crawl below like ants.
Fuel the fires with logs, our brother’s arms, and any ends, and any odds.
And those same insect men stand awed
At the twirling majesty of the mist enchanting.
Smoke climbs into the place of God.
Us bug-eyed beasts begin to applaud
Falling into our timeless trance.
Fuel the fires with logs, our brother’s arms, and any ends, and any odds.
All the slime of the soil stands drop-jawed
Feeling from the raising smoke a pleasure like romance.
Smoke climbs into the place of God.
We kiss at our skin where the smoke leaves a layer like pomade.
We hurry about our scurrying chores, eager to please the stuff that enchants,
Fuel the fires with logs, our brother’s arms, and any ends, and any odds.
Smiles creep, none sarcastically, across our cheeks, when we guffaw
Our pure joy at the warmth of black smoke. We raise our chant:
‘Smoke climbs into the place of God;
Fuel the fires with logs, our brother’s arms, and any ends, and any odds.’ ”
