Little Apocalypse
The butterfly’s out on noon patrol,
dragooning down to the rapt flower heads.
The ground shudders beneath the ant’s hoof.
Under cover of sunlight, the dung beetle bores through his summer
dreams.
High up, in another world,
the clouds assemble and mumble their messages.
Sedate, avaricious life,
The earthworm huddled in darkness,
the robin, great warrior, above,
Reworking across the shattered graves of his fathers.
The grass, in its green time, bows to whatever moves it.
Afternoon’s ready to shove its spade
deep in the dirt,
Coffins and sugar bones awash in the sun.
Inside the basements of the world,
the clear-out’s begun,
Lightning around the thunder-throat of the underneath,
A drop of fire and a drop of fire,
Bright bandages of fog
starting to comfort the aftermath.
Then, from the black horizon, four horses heave up, flash on their
faces.
Charles Wright
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