next
Apocalypse
I believe like the deaf believe in thunder.
I see the lightning in the distance:
The lightning too bright to be silent;
the distance too tall to be soft-footed.
I believe in the storm like one indoors
who sees the radar reports on the weather updates:
masses of clouds disguised as colors
discussed by the friendly voice predicting hail.
It is Spring and the snow is gone. The ice is gone.
Grass and leaves green enough for the blind to see
rise and spread flowers of belief like palm leaves
laid down triumphant before the Four Horsemen.