The Killing Jar

The gods drink their highballs—

May they stumble
They are so far / gone from light—  

Lorca says, one day we will watch 
    the preserved butterflies rise 

from the dead: 

their wings unpinned / lifted
Their satin-lined 
miniature coffins     shattered in exhibit halls 

and on collectors' tables— And the trees /
the trees—    should they not resound with

conjoined choruses of cicadas 
    who won't have to perish after long 

confinement     and separation— 

Laceratio: a mutilation, an opening
first dealt as wound 
in whatever guise

Shouldn't every street in every city 
  film with rags / sooty

uniforms they were made to wear 
during long    incarceration—

Can we stop now 
Can we not cut open / their hearts 

only to bind our ears against 
lamentations in the grass— 

Can we set one wing 
next to another
next to the unbroken /
ungathered

But are we

Can we