to media, a poppy field sprung digitally,
barely enough to fall asleep or stay awake.
Combustion now lies in another universe,
as we imagined ourselves away.
What saint is there to burn?
Where's the priest shouts for our demise?
Who amongst us seeks the catacombs?
Which miracle begins blind...dead?
It always was the clown angriest
in color and demeanor and volume
who waited for the fall. Reason
we always feared him, we knew
someone had plans plain as red.
In the end, we claw away at skin,
as if we could be erased--animation
or computer generated imagery.
Yes, easier than standing up to
revolve the world back to whirlpool,
all power gone from gun and $.
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