quetzcoatl

or this trick of
putting fire to the priests

of driving red-hot metal spikes
through the eyes of the king

it's an old story
and it starts like this —

you take what you want
because you can

you understand that gods are frail

that gold is worth more
than human life

and what about poetry?

what about the fools who write it?

ask lorca if he begged for his life

look at what good it did him

another pointless fucking death to
consider in the purplegrey light
of a late november evening

another child lost in a burning house

this woman in bed next to you
who says she has to go soon

who says she needs to
be home before her husband

her footsteps fading down the hallway
and whatever reasons you have for
ending up alone in
this two room apartment

whatever it is you wait for
to happen next

the fact that it never comes