Sistine Chapel with Boeing B-29 Super-fortress

Still desperately waiting
For the world to end 
The fence pale knock
In a rising morning gust
Not quite a harbinger
But with that frisson
Of things falling out of order
The window almost stuck
In sprawling autumn colours
Barked knuckles when it at last slips
Fist warm iron against your lips
The map an ingrained isthmus
In a glorious kind of burgeoning

I saw an angel in the words
Scratched away til it had fled
Feathers with the weight
Of marble 
The uncouth and
Last immortal remainder

This is a trifle
The blood of damson plums
Bleeding to the filigree of sponge
And that quick-frozen, artificed desert
Off the Ross Sea ice shelf
Penguins in the lee 
Of waves startled to a surprise
                                                         -ing stillness

White as Hiroshima, and 
Through an extenuating season
In Nagasaki the cherry blossoms curling

I counted all the dead
It was too many
I counted just the one
It was enough

The fuselage
Between your legs

Whore red
In the photograph 

The sky has a fresh-cut perm
From the wedge of door, an ammonia waft
As if Simoni scraped
His fingers through the paint
Of God’s unsatisfactory hair

Hands not quite done
Too desperately outstretched 

Then was called away 
From these whited palisades
By cattle-truck to attend
His mother’s persistent coiffure
Tall as cumulus and the blue-grey
Of battles everywhere
In an inappropriately shaped box
Laid to rest