Chicken Little was right

We lay on a carpet of moss
as saints shone down through
maple and oak leaves.

Vines intertwined with shadows
and choked at our feet.

Our beards grew at an alarming rate.

A sparrow fell dead beside
our heads and God barely glanced
up.

Chicken Little ran out of hiding
and sang us a song.

Our tongues forked
as snakes slithered between our thighs.

We sewed our skin together
with porcupine pins and plastic threads.

My femur erupted in ash and silence.

Our speak was violence.

Lightning burst and-