The Killing Jar

The gods drink their highballs—

May they stumble
They are so far / gone from light—

Lorca says, one day we will watch
    the preserved butterflies rise

from the dead

their wings unpinned / lifted
Their satin-lined
miniature coffins     shattered in exhibit halls

and on collectors' tables— And the trees /
the trees—    should they not resound with

conjoined choruses of cicadas
    who won't have to perish after long

confinement     and separation—

: a mutilation, an opening
first dealt as wound
in whatever guise

Shouldn't every street in every city
  film with rags / sooty

uniforms they were made to wear
during long    incarceration—

Can we stop now
Can we not cut open / their hearts

only to bind our ears against
lamentations in the grass—

Can we set one wing
next to another
next to the unbroken /

But are we

Can we



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