that thunderstorms
Two tears for Auschwitz
and Hiroshima, perhaps;
How much absolution can
are angels crying
up in heaven.
Two tears for Auschwitz
and Hiroshima, perhaps;
and one for Pilot’s yielding
and the washing of his hands.
But I can’t help but wonder
which spear of silver water—
which single drop of trillions
did I buy and manufacture
with my callousness, dis-
But I can’t help but wonder
which spear of silver water—
which single drop of trillions
did I buy and manufacture
with my callousness, dis-
comfiture, or
self-righteous reach
for the shield of solutions?
How much absolution can
one tiny bit of certainty cost?
And what desperately thirsty
but innocent plot
might that tortured drop
of water nurture—when
of water nurture—when
and wherever it chances
to land?
