walking through the sunrisen flames.

we watch the seas spin in shifts.
the cosmoses are aligned with our minds.
we bring time to the table,
tables stained with the sins of our foremothers.
our brothers are broken like recalled toys for our children.
so we sit in chairs designed for the blind.
because we cannot see the crimes we have committed.
we rise to the occasion and fall with the seasons.
the fall is subsumed by springtime suns
as our sons are sent to wars we’ll never witness,
seen only through the bombs planted in marquees, streets and mountaintops,
the banks and civic centers. and we’re never to question the
ellipses granted to our lovers by the forces we cannot speak of.
linguists are crying in unison because we can’t see the
dilemma we bring ourselves toward in this moonlight:
we are the angels, but our actions are demonic.