In the Mouth of a Terrible, Toothless God

In the energy crisis my city has turned to burning angel skins. I read by their light, a book of elegies. A fruit fly lands on Amichai, I slap him flat Against the page. Now it is an elegy for him, as well, And his tomb. And I am a terrible, toothless god, Stringing blades of grass between the tongues of sheep. Ash of angel fire drifts over my head, falls in my coffee. O Holy, Holy, Holy indigestion. I bribe the coming day with open windows And freshly washed underwear Hung out on the clothesline, Slipping hastily over the hips of winds. The winds know, all you have to do is Open your mouth, the flies will come.