Little Apocalypse

--Charles Wright ( The New Yorker, May 26, 2003)

The butterfly's out on noon patrol,
dagoning down to the rapt flower heads.
Th ground shudders beneath the ant's hoof.
Under cover of sunlight,the dung betle bores through his summer dreams.
High up,in another world,
the clouds assemble and mumble their messages.
Sedate,avaricious life.

The earthworm huddles in darkness,
the robin, great warrior, above,
Reworking across the shattered graves of his fathers.
The grass,in its green time,bows to whatever moves it.
Afternoon's ready to shove its spade
deep in the dirt,
Coffins and sugar bones awash in the sudden sun.

Inside the basements of the world,
the clear-out's begun,
Lightning around the thunder-throat of the underearth,
A drop of fire and a drop of fire,
Bright bandages of fog
starting to comfort the aftermath.
Then,from the black horizon,four horses heave up,flash on their face.