the continents are
on fire.
and no one is surprised.
this is what we
have been working toward.
and this is what we reap.
clutching our misguided probity.
these facts grow anemic and skinny
into fleeting points of concern
and inconvenience.

we’ve moved on to other atrocities.

and what of your slatternly gods now?
they come begging forgiveness
for their derelictions.
the spears of this squalid destiny
piercing right through
their hearts,
their eyes,
their hands.

we’ve grown accustomed
to our holding of no thing;
to no thing hallowed;
to nothing sacred.

in our dreams
the vitiating silvered stags,
with their antlers
of smoke
and ash,
go leaping through
fields of yellow rape
in bloom and sway.

and in the darkening winds,
whispering in the
evanescing forests
they all pause and marvel at
the vehement glow just beyond
the thinning trees.
and even now,
in what might pass for rain,
the seeds withering
and us weeping in
the dead leaves.