For Nine Days Does the Anvil Fall: Seven

Fountainful petroleum
flame scorching stone overflows
bolting blades throwing embrace
of light over shade art sparks,

instant dawn swallowing dark
sculpture imparts holy thrum,
ablaze with rushing hymn
in place of water carved hearts

melt, unimpressed only some
moments before, drenched under
pressure of fire poured forth come
undone, from hands of hard saints

          dropped, pelted against æons
          these sinking suns haloes fade.


In this place what seems to them
an earlier day is not
nor day, nothing the same, takes
from monuments cachet, arcs

from orbs flood the public square
with what in private those from
here dare not share in their world’s
public sphere, that patriarchs

had warned from the start even
before prophets near the spot
ventured for weeks from Edens
more distant than the East came

          to this landmark to preach, some
          catastrophes come in waves.