Among the ruins of conscience
the red crow blusters its battered wings
against the wind
hammers with its beak and claws
the rank air where it caws its prayers
to the same god grappling with itself
who left his cherubim archangels
thrones dominions seraphim
to fall under the blades of fire
and on beyond the gates of eden
to face the arms of amelek in the cities
of brickless doors and windows
horizons now as close as skin.
The thrum of blood in our ears
is the voice of god that reads our stars’
mythologies here in the rubble of life
and wields a sword so sharp that pock-marks
eyes to silence and the yad’s failure
on the parchment of the world.