Other installments of the poem Gomorrah can be found
Gomorrah likes the burning sun shine behind the hills.
Peat moss soaks up the water from the storm that passed.
He takes his trowel out in thanksgiving. Buries its blade
deep through the soiled skin. A straw hat stings his neck.
“Watch out for the cardinal. They like to steal your seeds.”
Wisdom is masked to Gomorrah. His doom feels like a
heavy stone wrapped in moss and vine. Grapes shrivel in
neglect. His object the fleshy roses planted five years past.
There are marvels in the great cumulus that gather an array
partially blessing his dirt caked hands. Susan would know.
Would understand the troubles of Gomorrah. Take him to
The Shrine to deliver the missive they writ in the dark.
Letters now only visible in the light of his heart. Gomorrah
watches the ground. Worms eat. The fluttering snow on the
mountains he knows will not reach the plains. It has been left
to the fire. The sleep of the gods cannot expel or explain.