No miracles, no redemption yet.
Just a big red and white circus tent
Sitting empty in an vacant lot
across the street from the projects,
entrance flaps drawn up in presentiment.
And no breeze to speak of,
Just a faded blue August day,
Fourth in a row to break 100--
As the residents, like washedout ghosts,
Take refuge in the shadows of their doorways.
The only moving thing is the yellow eye
Of a stray dog--
But tonight, when moon spells sun,
And air cools and vapors rise--
Each shackled soul will be released, 		
& a jubilee of voices will be heard, singing,
through the buzzing of the mayflies. 
And the lightbulbs strung along the tent's spine
burning white-hot, will drawn a congregation in,
as the Preacher, anointed by a holy glow,
stalks Sin itself from his makeshift stage
while the bulbs sweat and flutter above his head, 
burn blue and, one by one, explode!



copyright 2001 Phoebe Claire Publishing, LLC  All rights reserved