The Sky Doesn’t Want Your Mythology
Launch a vase of thorns into the sun,
watch those fangs burn to seeds
that bloom in red reverse on their return,
revisit the Earth as bloody rain,
our attempt at beauty futile
yet rising for a moment first
to convince us we are eternal,
only to fall, fall back with the stain
and blade of hidden motives,
leaving us raw, burning, marked
with the face of an angry star
we created in the first place.
You Didn’t Ask For This And Now You Have To Breathe Fire
Wait for the ash blanket and the concrete
wall of stone when the lights go out
and all you can breathe is smoke until
you adapt and cough up flames in the night
just in time to signal a getaway car with no plates
and everyone in town looks on, but their eyes
have become dead comets in their skulls,
their teeth falling out as they call to you
but you’re already gone, gone to light
the fire that will turn this whole place
to scaffolding holding ashes, ashes, and
I snapped my fingers and they caught on fire.
I winked at the sun and cried a diamond.
I touch your back, my hand turns to a bouquet.
The breath of a tree overhead
carries the sound of a thousand raindrops.
Robert Krut is the author of two books: This is the Ocean, recipient of the Melissa Lanitis Gregory Poetry Award from Bona Fide Books and published in 2013, and The Spider Sermons (BlazeVox, 2009). His work has appeared widely in journals like Gulf Coast, Blackbird, Passages North, Vinyl Poetry, and more. More information can be found at www.robert-krut.com.