The tiled sky
wrings its hands over us;
below the children swing,
back and forth,
back and forth;

there will be blood
soon;
simple, causeless
blood;

in our ears
and mouths
and under
our nails

and the children will
swing,

back and forth,
back and forth,

like a surgeon's needle,
like a heel grinding,
like myriad fingers
twisting in hell.