“The bay is blowing gray beneath the sky. The trash fish are fingered
From the net and go missing with a flick of the blade.
Pity the newborn’s cry into the cold of the clinic.
Fear the man whistling along the road beneath a dying sky.
Know the last judge was painfully shy unless he was with his own.
The citizen has figured his way out of duty claiming a murmur.
These are the musicians tapping from the center of the earth.
This is the song of the very last whale.
This is the drumming along the fault line the city fears.
It could happen—it could happen in your time.
This is the song of the river shifting suddenly, jumping course—
The volcano that blew without warning the monitors.
This is the meteor that was never charted headed homeward.
This is the horse’s hay set fire by the priest—
Blue smoke blowing under the sky, yellow misery,
Rain falls on the slicker promise of the worm.”
Here the rector has changed his voice and tone.
The congregation will forget after the punch line has locked in.
How long can we hold our breath? All this thunder is funny.
Has he finished? Is it okay to breathe now?