how much grief can be housed within the same gentle body?

it must come spilling into the bleeding streets

it must tear skin in all it’s urgency to be felt, felt so deeply it might just wash the Earth with kerosene.

The source sits atop the town like a septic organ. The state is sick.

When something rots, we take a scalpel and cut. That’s just the way it is.

So when the time comes- and the time has come-

The forecast is fire.

Look! All the people are cracking open.

Reaching inside and carving torches from their ribs

and holding them to the sky till

it splits in shades of red and vengeance

like lightning branded in to the eyes so

strongly it's all we see, even in darkness.

So here we all are 

Architects of our own unfolding

Gazing in to tomorrow.

Thinking about the gentle world for our gentle bodies

on the year's biting edge.