the art of progress,
in our patents,
casks full of unbirthed dawns
with stillborn fates.
we perfect over and over
the art of dying.
We fuss over one endangered butterfly species.
Grandpa said once
that God has grown soft
with old age.
that mercy has turned his hands
into arthritic claws.
So we bless bastards and curse God
and yet we live,
we burn bridges and build bombs,
and yet we thrive.
in many forms;
the glue-induced blind begger,
the amended Book damning girl-childs,
the Raid-resistant mosquito,
Urban rats with fangs cats respect,
resolute green leaves in the middle of a Fall October,
and man, oh man, who finds new ways to die.