Death Angels

Death gets more credit than it deserves. It is we who, wherever the bomb lands, draw a bull’s-eye. It is we who knot ropes & live under glass, who have razed forests to build forests of stone. We are made to degrade gracefully, like spent erections. We have evolved to tower on hind legs, to pass for termite mounds when we take root in the heat of noon, giving as little ground to the sun as we can, & while predators rest, to stretch bold as shadows toward whatever they or the wind happen to have dropped.