The day of fire is coming, the thrush, 
will fly ablaze like a little sky rocket, 
the beetle will sink like a giant bulldozer, 
and at the breaking of the morning the houses 
will turn into oil and will in their tides 
of fire be a becoming and an ending, a red fan. 
What then, man in your easy chair, 
of the anointment of the sick, 
of the New Jerusalem? 
You will have to polish up the stars 
with Bab-o and find a new God 
as the earth empties out 
into the gnarled hands of the old redeemer.

Poet: Anne Sexton
Poem: The Fury Of Earth
Volume: The Death Notebooks
Year: Published/Written in 1974
Poem of the Day: Mar 30 2011

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