The light in his eyes discernible from here to high hold and I could have heard his screams from here to my farm.



Let it not be said that we didn’t see it coming,
or that we didn’t try.

Recall Shiva, ash smeared and towering death, 
conjured by fire in Alamogordo.
Recall physicists turned watchmakers,
guilt growing like a Hiroshima cancer.

Recall peace parks,
Sunday marches,
palm fronds,
banners, digital petitions,
the changing of a profile photo to a declarative sign.
Such conviction as a dove!

Recall how we, with such resolve, attempted salvage,
tried to pull the body from the wreck,
or if not, to perform our most honest sorrow as it burned.


And the end, slow and tumorous,
will come not with a bang
nor however many billion whimpers either.

Will come with no screech of nails on glass,
no holy stone to swing at the skull,
no keening grief.

Will come not with eulogies
but a long and welcome quiet,
with none to mourn the passing,

of all this meat that learnt to speak.

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