By A.Z. Foreman
The noon-born shadows are long and longer yet.
Long out of bloom and time the oak trees stand.
Fragmented yellow leaves are what is left
Of the mirror that today broke overland.
But bronze and monumentous statues keep
An olden green like something being said,
Standing to reason, and against all seasons,
That in the clouds The Lore Our God is dead.
For in the only-begotten sun of goddamn,
True Judgment Day will come as calm as this:
A carbon sabbath broken in the sky,
And a species writhing on the crucifix
Which high little priests have judas-kissed goodbye.
Heat will be the last word of the sun
And the last leaves be weathered from the willow,
As colors clot as if a will were done
And Man sinks dry like paper turning yellow.