The preordained trajectory of an                   

arrow arcing midair and careening

towards a skull. Animal logic expressed

by temperature and twitching haunch.

Knocked loose, a grey stone tumbles down

the sloped cathedral wall. Arriving

unannounced at the village gates,

the unassuming feast, the very back

of the eye. Indeed there is a purple storm

making ragged cloth from the sky and

cracking at the teeth of the mountain.

An ancient fold of the mind pulses.

Hooves avalanching across the altar cloth.

This will taint the celebrations, make us

hungry for every nail in the floor,

will chew our sanctuary down to

the quivering stone we have so carefully

placed in the earth. Each crashing step

twists a cursive of sparks from

the ground, dissolving barriers

between light and violence. Watch,

the impulse rears back as if startled

by its own image. Stumbling past

quiet eyes. Foaming at the mouth.

Finally speaking a chemical apocalypse.

Every fear confirmed with such conviction

the storm is mistaken for scripture.