There’s hissing under concrete
like water on a griddle:
the sun is parching rivers
and the islands in the middle.
The sunset is magenta,
with a touch of cobalt blue:
the clouds are gangrene-coloured
while the sea has turned to glue,
and I hear the storm is coming,
and the wind will blow for years.
whilst the birds are singing descant
to the music of all fears.
I am growing scales
and I think I feel a fin,
God continues laughing,
though the joke is wearing thin.
The snakes are speaking tongues
and they handle tent-pole preachers
The hale are halt and limping
as we cheer them from the bleachers.