— Noble in its misery, November
Taxonomies, the pathos tragedies
That come from looking below, the crow caw
Not quite forgiveness, more a poem of the fall
For a God who feigns indifference, compassion
Being so much better served in its absence.
For someone has to watch the creatures gut
Each other, as long as they don't interfere
With the innocence that seems too much part
Of the plan, as sufficient for the pain
In trajectories that are escaping
To the rising action of wings released
Beyond our sense of meaning — no more needs
To be said, yet the silence is keening,
As if there's too much pity in the balance
Between enduring and killing, loving
And being loved that is still a children's game
Up on the ridge-top, shadows in the clouds
Laughing and tagging, then blood-curdling screams.
How hard in the echo not to correct
What will not be learned except in silence
Long and hard. And we gaze, mute humans,
As the short day's last sun purples that mountain.
