There seem no limits to the dimensions of pain.
It begins with the unjust act of God towards Eve --
Childbirth, the ripe, horrific screams without reprieve,
Followed by the choices we must make to sustain.
In The Promised Land, it's raining the body parts
Of women and children again; locusts return
Soon thereafter; false prophets are born; baal will burn;
And new donations given to the blessed Arts.
I myself believe the Big Guy had it coming.
And some fat fledgling angel, with effort alight,
Seeing black and blue clouds bleeding brain matter, might
Conclude Hemingway's Killers had done some thrumming.
The washing machine's stopped flashing, the angel garb's clean,
And, like the Sunday after confession, I'm pristine.
