God The Condor

I pull the God of Thunder I pull Him

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