by Allan Peterson

When a huge hole has opened over Antarctica.
When census counts a quorum of overpermed evangelists,
ice-haired, seated smugly among Rococo deceits on TV.
When all the little black rivets of Bach have been undone,
and pages like sheet ice fall as the negative weight of lies.
When muscles are flesh and sequenced in orderly rows,
in such even and overwhelming light there are no shadows.
When the abundant black gasses of last night burn off
and there is the capitol with its blistered dome, bear white
against the sky, quartz white, dissolved like weddings.
When dread of a burst pipe lengthens winter into rictus.
When we feed on ill meaning till the atmosphere is eaten.