And
all that’s left outside are the horses
tied
to their posts. When the floods
recede
will we line up the dead
in
neat rows, the way we did
in
Ypres? The last children
are
leaving their homes now.
Soon
only loose fur, aglets without
laces,
shores of nothing more
than
the dismantled spines
of
jellyfish. Riddance swelling
among
the barren fruit flies, their
kingdom
of peels and pits.
The
girls swat, no use. Pierce
their
tongues instead. Their fathers
well
toward retiring now, if only
those jack asses
in office.
Today
the ability to hunt boar
by
hot air balloon was made legal.
It
should then reason that we too
were
once abused animals
scratching
at doors while
water
rose over us. Have
all
hid from the rainbow
giant
in the sky who wants us
dead
by rifle. Who’s to say
any
one of us hasn’t already died,
isn’t
right now covered
by
white linens? Thoroughbreds
with
all their weight piled
atop
their own limbs
leaving
cracks in the metal soles. It is natural
for
disasters to beget more disaster.
If
you haven’t already, set fire
to
something while it’s raining.
The
juxtaposition will feel
like
an orgasm, not sure
when
you inhale if you are
breathing
in smoke or steam.
