We could drink
Or fly, but our wings
Here, after the Fall,
When words were graffiti and the ruins,
Their suggestive canvas landscape,
Turned our gaze from heaven.
We could lie.
Or crazy-dance away under the amber orb
Of catastrophic hubris
We will sow regret and swarm the sandstorm rivers
Deaf to the famished
Blind to the turned page
Our harvest is a morgue of rabid demagogues
Who elect themselves and preach their vapid
Excess of murder.