Insignificant Rough Beasts
The centre held
as it always will.
Our tragedy is in the beauty of tiny fingernails,
a boy's first gurgle,
his inability to alter the earth.
Our tragedy is that the ant in my kitchen
will not be mourned.
Murders tumble, drop of blood
by drop of blood
while complacent bodies
slouch toward inconsequential homes.
Our tragedy is that our comedies
play for only seconds
And that our bones
eternally grind to dust.
We are the disgraceful rough beast
yearning for fire
so that each red splash
would drown the earth.
MGB
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