Lawn Chair before the Hills of Megiddo

Red-faced running, eating, burning
heat melted windows and turned
grass to dust, rolling dust,
mounding dust—crisp baked husk,
parched picketed suburbia—glacier,
snow cap, lake swallowed whole
by that rippling tide, the expanding
hush, the nothing-more.

Fist crush and burst, the end of dawn,
a thousand times promised
and soon and soon and soon,
A speck in the fade-light,
Lawn chair and sleeping,
when morning dreams made flutter,
swell, well and gush, flow—
because sometimes that last
finger, that slip-to-waking
grasp at dream-sewn fabric
tastes so real that to
wake and come up empty
seems like God's big joke.
No trumpets, seals, bowls—
Wormwood and Death's Rider
left the business, just end of it
and no new city, no red
to turn the faces pure,
no pulling back of eternal veil.

Awake Eye to Eight
minute lull—the clouds—spread,
skinned, white—are Lambs—
the blue sky orange, the heat
burst and pupils swell
and melting into plastic seat.
Good Morning, Sunshine Apocalypse
and nothing, a push,
rush into an infinite creaking silence.