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THE GOOD PEOPLE
20:00
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In the hour of harvest
They will come
Chattering, chattering
Mothers, children, fathers
Tied to stakes and skinned alive
Bodies blossoming
The hoarse, goatish laughter of Man
Anonymous, or not Man at all
A fondness for delicate eyeballs
The blackness of pupils, gaping
Sharp, dismal instruments
Scrape the bones
Drink from pools of blood and tides of grief
Condemned to palsy, exquisite, foreign things
The great foul sun, lowering, lowering
Becoming vaguer, deeper and redder and more obscene
Sight meets death in the infinite
Wheat in the fields, not swaying
Then hear the clinking of chains in the belly of the earth
The brittle sounds of insects burning in the pasture torched
The papery rush of fleeing birds, wings licked by the flames
Man will feast on the flesh of daughters and sons
Cooking on the rocks
Sweet ember child
You will see
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