120. The Only Reason We Die is We Were Not Meant to Be Here

the song doesn’t sing | no need to listen
out in the darkness | only the deer can see the light
blistered | the light burns our eyes
what our eyes see | is whatever they believe is true
carrion for the vultures | and everyone is a vulture now
take this small offering | to give in memory of the dead
the purpose of the votive candle | is for it to burn away
darkness enwraps | darkness enthralls
as we descend into Hell | we find new levels | new depths
darkness darkens | the fire of torches cannot illuminate the night
when the deer | stares
in the darkness | at the camera it cannot see
at the lens | of the camera in the darkness that it cannot see
at the camera that catches | its eyes surprised by
what it doesn’t realize | by what | it does not see
in the nightly darkness | of the suburbs of the imagination
as it searches | in the safety of darkness
protected from daylight | to find enough food to eat
to find enough nourishment to | keep herself alive
as winter blunders once again in the direction of | her

the night is winter at | the onset of fall
colors fading to brown | brightening into orange, yellow, red
soon enough | if the climate has the heft for it
white will | wander in random flakes of snow down to
the earth | the remnants of green lawn sleeping
each individual flake melting upon impact | with earth
until the surface is cool enough | the flakes proliferate
only a blizzard now can save us | only snow deep enough
to muffle the voices | yelling up at us from the depths of the earth
we cannot save this planet | we cannot save this country which
requires iniquity be replaced | with sin | and expects
shame and hate be exalted | to drown out any
voice of pensive mood | any fragmentary attempt to say
we can somehow live on this earth together if we try
at least | right now | we can die together to be
buried or scattered | into or over | this one earth
joined in death | as
we could not have done alive | now all we do
is await that death | the bullet to the busted heart
the virus our only air | the slumber of death our only recompense
in the morning | the deer
is no longer here | she moves in her silence
folds herself into the woods | step by cautious step
branch by branch | leaf by quivering leaf
into the slender woods | allowed her by the exigencies
of suburbia | more welcoming than those of the cities
where winter has already perished | to the extent of autumns
lengthened to the boundary of every spring | to the edge of the ocean
warm to the touch | the sky untrammeled only
in the east | we wait | and we await
action takes the shape of hope | so it is the biggest lie
one believing | in heartfulness at the suffering of enemies
the hand opened | but not for slapping
we are lost but wandering | into November
hearts beating fast | the hunger for longing for
expectation of a slim opportunity | for light
snuffed out | knowing
a million million might | raise their voices together to sing
for the coming of the light | and yet a few
dark voices | guns gripped with fists | might wash us all away