Poetry Forum

Full Version: May 2021
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The Second Comin's a carrion bird circlin
high above yer head.
Step out o' the shade an' strain yer neck,
you'll see it's there: God never left.
The gyre enfolds you. Pestilence, war,
famine: your breath knocked out
like you were trampled by horses, like you'd forgot
you're still standin with yer head bent back

an' the crow snatches out an eye
to the timeless tune o' Jesus Chariot
stuck in yer head. A big red rooster
slouches towards his city to be born:
yer blood its comb, yer cries its crows---
Lord, would my house grow legs and go!