The
genius that baked the first clay pots prospered on sunny mesas
in niches of canyon walls, by the steaming
Jemez Mountains...water level dropped, these sites were deserted.
Bowls
and Bombs—
each handmade and
wondrous to behold.
Peaceful
is this spongy ground, the sentinel's
tall shadow curling into putrid balls, saucered eyes dining on
grains of fretted light, this is the largest kingdom unseen,
where Lilith's ionized wings screech
against bitterly cold air, a statistically disloyal
breech working the night shift with Top Secret clearance, her
wild heart pacing through parallel
computers programmed with tropes of "pre-hostility,"
"environmental adjustment,"
"collateral damage..."
Dark
Mother, End of Days.
Snow smothers the earth with a heavy effluence
of plutonium mixed with clay, a felony
migrating downhill...
to a little shrine that was always there.
