Higgledy piggledy, turning and turning as gyres are widening, centers unheld,
things fall apart and there’s anarchy everywhere; falcons fly freely and can’t be compelled.
Dimming the tide there is blood in the water and everywhere customs of innocence drowned.
Held by the worst is a fervent intensity; lacking conviction the best run aground.
Surely there must be some kind of apocalypse; surely epiphany must be at hand!
Visions unbidden from Spiritus Mundi of something awakening out on the sand:
Head of a man with a leonine frame and a pitiless gaze that’s as blank as the sun;
sleep became nightmare by passage of centuries long before eons of slumber were done.
Higgledy piggledy, beast of antiquity, imminent, just as the prophecies warn,
shambling slowly but revelatorily, slouching towards Bethlehem, there to be born.
