you on a soft grey afternoon,
magnolia trees in bloom, last of the
wolves hung by their necks with
taut gleaming wire

children in fire at the water’s edge

your lover leaving in her lover’s car

father dead like his father before him,
some sad parade of joyous despair,
birds with broken wings crawling across
bloodsoaked fields, young women eating
handfuls of poison, vomiting up
their intestines
their hearts
their souls
and then you in a quiet room on
a bitter grey afternoon

you with your empty canvas and
your handfuls of broken glass

you have no masterpiece to offer,
no wisdom,
no beauty,
pockmarked, asymmetrical awkward features,
cracked and bleeding hands

keep shouting about the
death of god, but what if you’re wrong?

what if you’re right?

the moment you find out
of course
is the same moment you find out that
it never really mattered

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