A two-legged bag
stops me on the street
and asks me
what I’m carrying
under my arm
carrying carrying carrying
Poor us, we are all kings
when we gaze at the starry sky.
The noise of the crowd grows faint
on the town square and in our blood.
The voice will re-enter the angel’s trumpet.
Once again hell will rise on its feet.
I dream how on a flat surface
I set down knives of various
shapes and sizes.
Already there are so many of them
I can’t count them,
or see them all. Someone’s being done in
by one of those knives.