18 - Supplication to the Voiceless

From the time I was a child

I feared the suffering of insects,

bodies mutely pulped.

I watched the machinic clutch

upon a mangled ant, grinding

down last limbs in dogged

irrespect of its own dying.

With each burst bulb of

a laden wasp I waited for

some puff of their interior

mystery to be released.

But silent, they marked the

limits of my knowledge,

those wounded gods.

I pray to them daily for their wisdom,

because I want to be ready.

16 - Evangelicalism

Their warding curses
write in gold and black.
The first, enforcing rarity.
Second, making sure we don’t
forget our getting off the track;
conjuring one unseen eternity
in front and leaving yet
another nigh and chasing
at the back.