by Bruce Mc Rae
Can’t you sense it, son of a bitch?
Something is coming over the fields.
Something approaches us on its stomach.
Some say it’s winter or an army of snow.
Some suggest a muted messenger.
Everyone nods when death is mentioned.
It’s marching out of the seventh level,
dragging a chain, a bad foot, a giant’s head.
It flies from out the valleys of reason,
my sweetest demons rattling in their beds,
all my soft monsters despairing,
the sun blighted, the air soured.
But it’s only the rain, an optimist says.
Schools darken, our churches condemned.
It’s only the plague of our indifference.