Plotting shadows from the chaos
I see none at noon,
long ones crimson
as day dies in the Pacific.
Dead lives turned up right side.
From dusk it's clear
what we cast upon the earth --
no seeds, no water, no light.
Just cacophony slipping through smoke,
half a million ghosts
etched in cinders by a new moon,
grid of darkness, spreadsheet nonpareil.
Or hawks cutting ovals in midnight sky,
mountains askew, smashed by clouds;
oceans, powder; glaciers on fire; fires, iced.
Pattern that marks the present in black,
turns history into a bell curve --
chart of mistakes ripe for awards,
say, holocaust without equal,
or nuclear war of note,
best tyrant,
dead children with most bloat.
Timothy Pilgrim