~ after Hieronymus Bosch
This world near the end of the world
is meat-grinder, is bridge buckling
under the weight of souls impaled,
or in the throes of their would-be
undoing. This world is bodies astride
blades and bowing beneath the hull
of some idol's cast-off shoe, is beasts
and demons shooting swords or flames from
their mouths. In the distance, lakes black
as tar; the clang of instruments for binding
and shattering. The harp of the world
is strung to the point of breaking.
What hope there might be is a small
bubble, a spacecraft with limited seating.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
