and swooping down from the nest

we spied a vast swathe of humanity

a neon smear of life       just try telling

this bristling immensity

 

this rhythmic pulse

 

that somewhere god was dying               not dying as we will die

with weathered eyes and peeking bones

but dying in the hearts of each person who had                                faith

 

now crumpled                   faded                    a cotton-like receipt

 

found in the hinterland of a tight denim pocket

 

dragging their weariness through

one last sepia portrait

 

until passing through the sickly scent     

 

of immortelle and strawflower

 

they find themselves in a garden

 

the last garden

 

where the rain catches in the necks of the black roses

 

so determined but

 

eventually

succumbing to the weight

the stems bending until

the flowers kiss the ground

water spilling from the petals as blood from a wound