End times
We thought it was a sign, the imminent undoing of the sky. Canting prophets consulted the lint balls in their navels. We thought it a sign, the flying out of orbit of the world — but what to make of the coffee becalmed in its cup, the street’s slow traffic gangling past our doors and windows, all bolted against the loud flocks of grackles? An iridescent sea broke across our lawns. Black rainbows of wings blocked the sun. But an old woman, bent over her stick, warned it wasn’t the sky we should fear but ourselves, how we fail to bear witness to whatever happens in each & every holy, unstable moment.
I was one of fourteen authors who took part in the writing of a chain poem at the poetry collaborative. Like the other participants, I only wrote a single line, but apparently that gives me the right to revise it however I want and post the results here. I hope I don’t ruffle any feathers with the extent of my revision. Read the original to see how much I’ve altered, and who contributed which words and images.