As if all the birds rushed up in the air,
Fluttering;
Hoots, calls, cries.
I never knew such a monster even in child dreams. It grows:
Glass smashed;
Stores shut;
Windows tight closed;
Dull, far-off murmurs of voices. Blood--
The soft, sticky patter of falling drops in the silence.
Everything inundated.
Faces float off in a red dream.
Still the song of the sweet succulent patter. Blood--
I think it oozes from my finger tips.
--Or maybe it drips from the brow of Jesus.