The sticky-slick petals crumpled in my hand
Turn to textured shreds, twisting in twilight’s timid touch,
To leaves, ripped from routes, stems, and homes. Still, they live a moment more
Before letting themselves stop, for one, desperate moment, and returning to dirt.
We smile, subconsciously killing our world
With jet engines
And forgotten plastic buckets, suffocating that on which they rest,
Poisons, like purple concoctions mixed with communion,
Medicines, yellow herbs, untouched by religion,
Spill no blood, need no blood, but are not blood like wine becomes
When shared in one chalice, before cracker crumbs and ___ down-cast eyes ___ land on the floor.
We wear pins: some saints, others angels, all are silver;
They ignore our faults as we forget how to
Kneeplanted, lippedwords, thenbecame forwentheartbeats doneby unawareofferings.