KINGDOM OF HELL
When he returns — his voice a trumpet,
his tongue a sword, riding a white horse
down from the sky, crossing five-lane freeways
packed full of oil-fed camels stalled
under needle-eye interchanges,
what if he exits where monstrosities squat,
full of passionate intensity,
holding down their literal corners?
Will he sit and braid a whip,
then rise and tip the tables?
Will he drive the deacons out to their Suburbans?
And if he sees their olive-skinned shepherd,
their lamb, the portrait of themselves
they’ve killed and pray to —
will he still have come to build,
or to destroy?