In the warmth of the brilliant, early morning sun,
comes a shadow only I can see
marinating in its holy scent
the delicate gradations in between.
It is a virus, a pathogen particular to you, but, as well,
a rune, a charm, a magic word, neither delicacy nor intellect
are welcome here.
The procreative act is sacred, grown ragged with light
and beauty does not enter it.
A hazard of which we know,
with the faith they never expected,
your red, raw hand rips the throttle wide open.
His need to flex by flirtation with death,
one hundred silver hooves all cower before the absolute
but in the dream,
the still dark center of the heavens hammer free the forbidden.
In the control towers, each breath of televised slaughted goes unnoticed.
But we must smile indulgently.
We must content ourselves with futile little gestures such as these.
For something full of grace
is two parts terror to one part despair.