(home)
(gallery)
(authors)
(contents)

 

January 14, 1991

1. Prelude

Do you know why it's so quiet tonight?
It's because everyone's waiting
for It. They're waiting for
It to arrive. They're waiting
for It to happen. They're waiting.

They've wanted It for a long, long time.
When they went to the movies, they saw
It on the screen. When they opened a book.
there were Its words. When they turned on TV,
they saw It looking at them
through the eyes of the people whose eyes are bright
and dead.

They sat down and let their bellies puff up
in the light of It.

Down at the supermarket, It was on the shelves,
where all the packages have been New
forever. Out where they live, It lives in a house
that's just like theirs. It is waiting at the light,
and when they zoom away they find
It where they're going just like
It was where they came from.

When they went to the game
they found that It was the score.
When they went to the church
It had a smile for them at the door.
When they went to the school
It taught them that It was the rule.

When they got a job It was there
buzzing in the light, whispering in the hall,
and when they got out their money, the money said,
"In It we trust."

They've wanted It for a long time,
watching flickering musclemen beat gooks and freaks.
They paid good money and then some more.
Now It is coming. If you're real quiet
you can hear It. Well, Hell-o! Right at the door.

2. Chaconne

The souls of children
are like smooth stones
and when His will is done
He picks them up
and casts them down
under a million footsteps.

The souls of women
are like green trees
and when His will is done
the fires that bum
in endless furnaces
prick every eye.

The souls of fathers
are like running streams
and when His will is done
they wander out
from silent towns
into the desert places.

The souls of angels
are like empty wind
and when His will is done
the wind falls,
the sea grows still,
the darkness gathers.

Souls mouth words
like blackened ice,
and when His will is done,
the ice is twisted
and the bitter spate
bursts from the darkness.






copyright © 1998 Gordon Fitch