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Day drizzles swords,
the vocal chords
remain hypnotized
in their sizable duty.

We realize, eventually,
that not all masses
of particles are necessarily
things. A ringing

in the ear, followed
by searing heat.
A dewy sweetness
on the tongue.

Over there is where
they carpet minds
in dung. The stench
of wrung necks, hung

like a shadow
over this whistling hive,
is enough to drive
the lunatic to sanity.

Our profane virtue
hurts in the worst way.
Meanwhile, Day
is flicking scabs at the sun.

-r. miller

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