God The Condor
From a nest I pull a little nestling limp
Hold Him to my chest from His stomach take
Half a cup of plastic half a cup of glass
And from His crop lift four bottle caps
What will make us well again what will make
Us sing poisoned by ideas poisoned by machines
God is cleaning up now God is eating
Inside a clown-pink face lead bullet casings
A black boa frames His shoulders like a painting
Imagine no more soaring no more Pleistocene
No more clouds pulled together by His wingbeats
God’s coming for us now He looks a little queasy
He rubs his head against the rock He sharpens His beak