On Sunday, bring your broken promises,

the two of them, fragrant as tangolas,

and lay them at our two and two tired feet,

and we will see if the floor collapses,

if the world, old as meringue, collapses,

if we are really this Satan's keeper, 

if we may really have this friend's egress,

if we may really hang by our own tresses,

and really, strike the world's red heart with axes,

and really, scream forever and not speak,

and really, swim in a sea of locusts,

on this Sunday, when God rests.  

originally published in TheInquisitiveEater