The Hope of Moths
Swifts and nighthawks of fear
twist and glide,
ripping the high-mast halo.
Moths in the glow are we.
Bat draws her sonic bead.
Heard in the cross-hairs, we float.
Believing we are strong owls,
fluttering in the dark, we break.
Stammering our creeds, we are swallowed.
Faith is not knowledge.
Reality is not optional.
We exist and nobody gets out alive.
Chicken nugget Phoenix
will not rise from the fryer.
In heaven there is no dipping sauce.
Bugs, birds and bats
have as much soul as you and I.
Do they care or hope as we do?
Night flyers, indifferent to light,
will not give warning,
neither will they pause to pray.
Plasma-screen auras
of hair product halos
quote from holy writ on hundred-dollar bills.
The outrage of the day
is Kenyan Mocha,
whipped into Benghazi froth.
Sliding vultures of dawn
descend to pick at stinking remnants
rending the greenback hides of night-kills.
Circling over a Wednesday morning in November,
down to relish death they flap and screech,
wary of jackals, they tear and squabble over filth.
Our hope rises from bones.
From a carcass in the dust of moth wings
springs a green thorn, drawing blood.
Walk the words or burn, never sicken.
Color the stones red and wet.
Paint with pierced feet.
Red cactus fruits will burst,
hearts crushed to pour out justice,
soaking the desert floor.
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