May 142012

by Bruce Mc Rae


Can’t you sense it, son of a bitch?

Something is coming over the fields.

Something approaches us on its stomach.

Some say it’s winter, or an army of snow.

Some suggest a muted messenger.

Everyone nods when death is mentioned.


It’s marching out of the seventh level,

dragging a chain, a bad foot, a giant’s head.

It flies fromout the valleys of reason,

my sweetest demons rattling in their beds,

all my soft monsters despairing,

the sun blighted, the air soured.


But it’s only the rain, an optimist says.

Schools darken, our churches condemned.

                                    It’s only the plague of our indifference.