Rapture (October 2001)
The elect are drinking coffee this morning,
feeling every imperfection in their joints.
The dead in Christ are tingling in their boxes,
listening with dry ears for the sound of a horn,
a ram's horn tipped with gold
like the Hebrews used to blow.
The trees are angry this fall;
the ones that were not ready
to have their leaves torn off
by wind and rain, the ones
that were sawn to make room for wires,
the ones that reddened perfectly
and were not photographed.
Everywhere, candlelit vigils.
Everywhere, crowds gather to watch the sun
swaying on its chain behind a cloud.
Everywhere the ghetto goes on
fucking and opening cans.
Now the soldiers are going.
The lovers separate.
The ghosts of ordinary people watch this
and return to their rituals.
One pauses near a window.
One walks through a wall,
the door that used to be there.
