Return of the Second Coming

Return of the

Second Coming

 

 

Turning and turning, round the slighted sky

wheeling round the axis of our desire

Try to wrest your gaze

from the falcon, the hunter.

It never fails to get a mention

how the falcon feeds on our attention.

 

We, the prey, we scan the sky

in hopes to set our selves aright

but when a revelation is at hand

our eyes grow glazed, the sky remains

in silence bare and white.

                                    

Strutting crows with tar-black feathers tied up in a knot

gather on the asphalt of an empty parking lot

to pace and think in ever-tightening circles, and call

to one another

and call and call.

A bloated grasping infant in a rocking cradle

pure and perfect monster, bawls

and bawls and bawls.

 

Always now and ever in the know the crow

does not acknowledge birth; no blest nativity

interrupts his focus on the rite of his activity

one leg up then down the other

in a steady stream of observation

calling out the troubles of his vast, indignant nation.

 

Taken apart, we fall, become such lonely lovers

the sum of love declines to zero, there to hover

as that bleating child who long ago was born

in compensation for his beastly form

adorns himself with promises to mend our lives.

Above, the restive falcon makes wide his talons

and dives.

Reviews

[Ken e Bujold]

A strong bit of writing here Montag. Old WB would be pleased

Ken e

[Montag]

Old W.B. might feel a little ripped off, but thank you.