CONSIDERING WAR
See there, a child running
smeared
in tank oil, when my friend
lights
a match and flicks to give
the child wings that fly
him
too close to the sun.
His matchbox once filled
with
matches that lit my
cigarette now
only have the ashes
remaining from
wings that flew children
too close to the sun.
Let me light a cigarette,
the child still shines
slightly, enough for me to
light a
cigarette. A quick inhale,
but already,
at the end of the
slithering smoke, there
dangles the skin of the
torched child. How
desperately it clutches, a
gargoyle scorched
of wings, but not of claws.
But in the end, I am only a
bookkeeper,
nightlessly piling,
cleaning, and emptying
shelves of gargoyles that
couldn’t
fly.
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