The Hat Called Sky:
—for Baatar Galsansukh
First, the firemen dressed in canvas
then the smoke scribbles dead birds
before your eyes, who can know
the arc of killdeer
from the thunder-vise of aortic cataract—
the oxygen-bright starlight in the brain
drains, the early Protestant comedy of delayed surprise,
complicates the eyes
rolling back while the head
likewise falls into the squash-basket.
All of them as if in congregation
standing up with hymnals blanking their faces—
the dead lamp with its nib of black tongue
lollygagging the Mistress’ planet
Mars setting with a full moon over Palestine.
Elmer Fudd eating crispily an eternally orange carrot;
little blind-bling miltons
moving sideways like crabs at his feet.
All our religions increasingly unworthy
of Thee
like a stranded cat in a tree. 