Half
1.
numb finger tips on the threshold of morning twilight
and i’m off to rescue the sun from its chosen assassins.
i drive fast in dark and throw clean mortars onto Facebook
as if anyone cares.
George Orwell did not predict we would be most scared of being ignored.
we are much more than profile selfies and vintage craft homes and unimportant careers,
yet some of us are, at some times, barely half in an awkward line
as we inch closer to becoming that which we rebelled:
the animated death.
2.
i’ve watched so many gods drop from contemporary grace
while navigating airs thick with prayers
that were nothing but blind procedure.
indigenous angels already massaged the bored spot
behind my future— all they ever wanted was to
destroy the symbols assigned to them by humans.
all hopes of dreaming for something better
collapsed around the pulse of a weak tide
as our great bald eagles fell from virtue
—tail feathers aflame—
to alert the spawning salmon that this was not an attack
but instead
a truce.
