Heaven must subject itself to the city for
the city to lose function. A throng of sparrows
and one gutter pipe must be all that sing.
The multitudes wilt from their professions and,
thus, professing. Hollyhocks taking in light are merciless.
God dreamed a professor of cinema saw the final image
on the last lost reel to Satan's Nightmares.
No one deemed God safe after that.
He took to wandering Brooklyn
with aimless pleasure, looking for
bridges to cross: crossing, and returning.
He'd lost his desperation, and without it
how could civilization admire itself?
This was the beginning of the third year
no one called for anyone. So it is writ.
from Ordinary Sun, Black Ocean, 2011.