Prophecy

It is at a window on Main Street, Vermont
where I come to the ugly edge
of the end of all ends,
to the prophecy of closing the door,
awake dreaming of the goodbye.

Here we are in the dark and smoky mirror,
gray and looking at each other,
whispering in quiet code,
predicting the clean cut
of the golden cord.

Say something,
anything that will allow God
to take notice
and send the angels
in time to carry our father
into the roots
of this earth
he loves.

Prayer with the body
dances with death;
ready for the separation
from the skin.