I repeat the story to myself, click my tongue: outside it is spring, winter, spring, the seasons wavering, uncertain as the light.
I give myself to the light, hope vanishing, appearing.
I have read the celestial texts, prophecy
in the crossed lines of my palm:
878 years hence the sky will open, the fist of God
will strike the ocean, raise it up to drown the wicked.
The Ark is a construct of light,
my mouth full of it, tasting of almonds,
dates, lemons. It is a leavening. My feet rise
above the many-tongued speech:
We will not wait, we sow the dragon's teeth,
drink pitchblende and lead, spit iron and rust,
Jerusalem, the city of peace.
*1950 DA is an asteroid that has, at most, a one in 300 chance of colliding with the earth in the year 2880.