Poem: Ezekiel's Valley

God glinting in the surgeons knife 

slicing, elongating time

City of the dead

holding its breath

but they do not yet

 begin to boast.

Downtown, you'd think the ring of bombs 

were songs they learnt from the trees,

busy Elohim, 

poking holes in velvet, 

buttering the moon

he knew, that his paradise,

serene it will be, however

not a reward but an apology. 

Beneath the blood-drunk black boot

is Creation 

running high and clear. 

This violence 

is both a forging 

and a returning

all at once.