We draw strength from the decay around us,
like children playing on the banks of a poisoned river,
we cleanse ourselves in foul water and coagulated fat.
we draw butterflies on the inside of our concentration camp walls
and blow them alive and away
over the razor wire to
alight on the limb of the old cypress tree.
Hand in hand we leave fresh tracks
in the ash of cities in riot
and skip stones
off the reflection of the blood moon.
We are not the red flesh
pasted to a white wall
of a preschool
surrounded by cop cars
and media vans.
We are not the shooter within.
We are not what travels in and out
of our mouths and our assholes.
We just happened upon this place;
to us there is only beauty.
So we coo to each other in museum whispers;
constantly amazed by the end of the world.