On the blue hill, the wind rushes
through his hair and trembles
through me. There is no cloud.
The great red eye is watching.
I wait with a gulp, it sticks in my throat
I feel too long. All this time too short,
my bones extended beyond my skin
a funny tent made by a child
My child kneels beneath the knife
the wind rushes through his hair
and trembles through me. All this
time, there is none to wait,
His command is His command
I bring the knife down and thunder cracks
and cracks and the knife falls
from my hand. The old man is there
upon a cloud, kingly and smiling toothy
“Oh you,” he beams, “I was only ever joking”
