Poetry from Web del Sol

  The Furious Season


Nothing was resolved –
not even after the fires.

Rubble crouched in dark places
and a whole new universe popped out.

The cosmos burning was probably
not so different from a city –

all the hints of order like dark veins
around which matter grows.

Now we see them ignited,
going out the way it all came in –

mushroom clouds — the deep,
molten core of a star.

In time, systems could emerge
from chaos, just as matter coheres

while light and gravity warp
and knit themselves into sky.

A path has been cleared,
seared right through the clouds –

see how it sets the rain to steam?


This is what’s born of the veiled girl who strolled
into the market and exploded:

glass and fire, shrapnel, bits of smashed temples
hurled like furious hail.

The blood of saints speckles cobblestone.
Broken windows release their longing for god.

How we’ve made of faith a fuse.
The girl’s faith strapped to her skin.

If we bared our chests to the angels
what would take hold?

I want you to know: I believe.
Maybe not your god but still.