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.