I saw the sky descending, black and white, Not blue, on Boston where the winters wore The skulls to jack-o'-lanterns on the slates, And Hunger's skin-and-bone retrievers tore The chickadee and shrike.  The thorn tree waits Its victim and tonight The worms will eat the deadwood to the foot Of Ararat: the scythers, Time and Death, Helmed locusts, move upon the tree of breath; The wild ingrated olive and the root Are withered, and a winter drifts to where The Pepperpot, ironic rainbow, spans Charles River and its scales of scorched-earth miles I saw my city in the Scales, the pans Of judgment rising and descending. Piles Of dead leaves char the air – And I am a red arrow on this graph Of Revelations.  Every dove is sold. The Chapel's sharp-shinned eagle shifts its hold On serpent-Time, the rainbow's epitaph. In Boston serpents whistle at the cold. The victim climbs the altar steps and sings: "Hosannah to the lion, lamb, and beast Who fans the furnace-face of IS with wings: I breathe the ether of my marriage feast." At the high altar, gold And a fair cloth.  I kneel and the wings beat My cheek.  What can the dove of Jesus give You now but wisdom, exile?  Stand and live, The dove has brought an olive branch to eat.