Spin backwards till the whine of the centrifuge
rises to a shriek, then cut the fuel line. Down
fly the red and white streamers: down
fly the tinged drops. Above
you see what you want to see.
Down here, it's all the glass and the quick poison.
Look, just because it's one thing doesn't mean it's not another.
The day sank in smoke and a sweet sour smell
like a wound gone bad. The stars missed their footing:
Someone cranked the wheel
and shook them down the shabby front of heaven.
Look, even now some one is lying
as they lay out the big squares: orange,
the night-dark of eggplant or avocado,
a deep-stirred red to call for justice.
In the end
a quilt lasts because the woman who sewed the backing
knew or didn't know what she was doing: some quiet lady
in a small Midwestern town,
willing to meet any power of the Kingdom of Hell
armed only with her sewing machine and the right color of thread.
You laugh, but the devil doesn't. He has not
had a good night's sleep since the last time
she threaded in the bobbin. Who'd be the Lord of Darkness?
All work and no play. With the rise of Arcturus, and a hint
of the Borealis, the ground will shake,
and every bridge will fall into its river.