Free from the horrors of the next four years,
the quiet dead rot peacefully
beneath offerings of flowers.
Ghosts put their unfinished business
aside. No need to add haunting
to such venom-soaked land. The most vulnerable
among us hope that scars will serve
as armor. Adam stands, the pink eraser
Yahweh gave him long ago
almost used up, flakes falling
as he rubs out names – Amur leopard,
Bachman’s warbler, Baiji,
Flawed but dear American democracy,
Bridled white-eye, Golden toad –
and humans rage or shop or numb ourselves
with scotch and prayers, prayers
as powerful as all the ones before.
Angels rinse their robes in God’s
fat tears, and His bellow of frustration –
I gave you a ballot box! – gets lost
in our new strange and violent weather.