Mayan Calendar

Mayan Calender The wingflap Of your thousand hearts Flying upward Will flay the blue of the sky away. The bones of heaven Will be laid bare, Shreds of god Still clinging to the white. The wind Will grow ropy With muscle, sinew, And will rush over the bones Like resurrection. But for now The sun trembles against the neckline of the sky, Like a woman Rolling a piece of light across her collarbone. Morning comes, and evening follows: The last day.