Beatitudes

The blessed inherit the earth,

bleached. Eden smokes. Her birds

ossify as they perch on the final

olive branch and search for dry land.

There is no firmament here.

Oceans touch petroleum

sky, carry cigarette butts

as burnt stars. Ultraviolet

children beg between last breaths,

give us something pure,

but their prayers sink

in the smog. They stick

their tongues out and catch

sulfur, sip lead, hook

dead fish in chemical rivers.

God empties his quarries

of miracles and watches as man

walks on water. With eyes the color of coal,

he sees his reflection in an oil slick

and recycles his plastic bags

for a noose.