People accuse me of horrible things while I dream of massacres, red agonies in diners and how I hate the rap of cold fingers on a marble table, a crown made of gold with the sun inside of it, the blade of a sharp knife, small owls and train stations, aloneness and betrayal, people howling about loss and politics, Liberian freighters spitting black plumes of smoke on my emerald-earthen lake, the drowned and swollen bodies caught in webs of the underwater spiders, young and old, blue and contorted, their purple, half-bitten tongues protruding like dogs, the hot blood of death, sparks from an old theater sign, blinking eyes looking the other way, burnt party favors scattered in the tall grass, an acre of white roses and the clay colored bones of a sparrow resting in a straw thatch, my remote fatigue with people is perpetual, when it rains, this is how I feel, because I know that God doesn't make the world like this.
We do.