turning the key, making amends to the sunrise

we make love
before the sunrise,
you and I,
I feel your presence even now, 
my Beloved,

Joe writes a poem
about God's middle finger
and the Rachael Corrie is on her way

between the rage of a poet
to bear witness and the question
what then is love,
is a key, turning...
the lathe of heaven
is a sickle of death
and so it is written
one heart lost in the desert
is the last just man walking
on earth
 
blood and oil spill, bullets and bread do not mix,
human misery breeds contempt, mob rules the mind;
love forsakes all, is never forsaken;
for every olive tree
that is planted on judgment day 
when even poetry has died, the earth shall flourish
in a dove's cry and hawks will soar
over the ruins of angry men.