There was a parade of humans, mostly naked:
a bishop holding a crosier; a drinker with a protruding nose;
a man fighting a bird, mounting it, pulling on its beard;
a granny dragging a money bag; an adolescent boy
with a snake coiling his neck. Their bodies were gaunt
and under their feet yawned the Mouth of Hell.
There were sixteen coffins, too, with people
climbing out of them, including a child, who sat dazed
on a little one, but the scene didn’t seem gruesome,
because there were trumpets blowing, making thought
almost impossible. Two of the sinners were trying
to escape, clinging to one of the Elect, who kicked
them back. Everyone clenched his fists. Everyone
held his head, as if it were going to roll off.

Supporting this scene was a pair of Enormous Hands,
expressing a mood of Agony, and a voice muttering
platitudes—The ways of God are strange.
Here, where suffering had the nature of Infinity,
my soft voice and demeanor were useless.
In a pint jar, I carried a cremated friend,
like flesh scraped from a cistern.
+++++++++++++++++++++Then I awakened,
and I was still wearing my red pajamas. The wind
was blowing, touching everything in the room.
A barge full of trash pushed another barge up the middle
of the river, creating brown waves that broke against
the mighty purple rhododendrons on the riverbank,
which seemed to say: There is nothing to fear. Last week,
it was their is and before that the honeysuckle.