It wasn’t holy so let us not praise gods.
Let us not look to them for bread,
nor the cup that changed water to wine.
Let us look to the bend of the road
that reaches. A silver blur across
the skyline, woman standing on the farm.
In her grasp, the shine that is seed,
that is beginning. She will work
the earth, bounty in the vault
of cosmos above her, heat
lightning that lassoes in its manic
current. Man never existed
but to invite danger. Loveless one.
There was once an army of men,
saluting from bayonet to bomb.
They were expert at sabotage, hand combat.
You stop the clock in your paltry chest.
The one that says choose, choose.
Wind that desired backward. Ring
the alarm. When you wake, no more
pain. A mirror like a window looking out.
What can your past now say to you
that has never been said before? What
of that clock that forbade you to move
forward. What of the clock that asked
for nothing but passage, the minutes
careening into you like a fitful arrow.
What of the clock that summoned nothing,
not even mercy. Once you tired of wanting,
a face to break, you started the clock again.