Thousand: Eight Hundred Sixteen

that pokes up from the cockpit behind the fixed wings and the blur of propeller at the fly’s nose? Green hairs lift from the birdseed boy’s head and from his arms and from his back and feet. The girl running down the street will get to the church and run up its steps and slam shut the double doors. The earth will rumble and the church blast into orbit atop the missile whose silo God kept hidden under the pews, under the hosannas and psalms, under the choir singing on Sundays and the little children and the aunts and uncles