Fire sirens in the valley.
At a scarlet inflorescence
bees cluster in the beard
of a spittle-bug's froth.
There may be balm in Gilead,
but here plastic bottles buzz
unpleasantly of want and emptiness;
of sunscreen gathering sand.
The skin of your throat has turned to glass
that will shatter if you nod.
You are a stiff necked race
and full of contumely, says God:
I made you hard so you would snap
with a satisfying sound.
In response to this Morning Porch post.