Updated: Apr 24, 2022
And the wind blew the buds off the trees,
scattering red across the black road.
Jesus out of his tomb and wandering
among the rotting corpses in Ukraine,
dragging his bandages behind him.
Put your hand in my wound, he says.
What I wanted to be born from this is lost.
Do you still doubt me that the world is broken?
Nothing has changed.
The God I thought I knew has receded
into a twilight of blood-clotted beards.
All these years and you've not noticed,
as your man Blake showed you,
all angels have a single hoof.
Your reckoning is with yourself.