Hey, Jindra:

Tell them what they came to hear
of elephant kindgoms, no-bottom

rivers, three-sided swords. Paint them
pictures of winning.

Tell them nothing of your rock cradle,
the air that sickens and incites you,

the silly men who seek
the directional star of a gassy day.

You lodge in your fuming rook
collecting a check while

the priests count carcasses.
No worries, they whisper,

she has long since lost
the list of your crimes.

...

For tomorrow: scared, anxious, fuming, all of this vortexing, all of these spirals coming together and he lashes out against the hand that would meet his hand, and it is a thing of disgusting beauty. I am too repulsed to hate him for it, though in the morning his face will certainly sicken me. If only I had a greater capacity for patience, and you a brighter flashlight for peering into those dark corners. If, if, and this is what it comes to. How many millions of years of evolution, and all you have to offer is this sneering cynicism, the quavering voice whose words don't match the tone. "I don't care," and I would cry if I had the capacity for it. Everyday in every way we make ourselves, we make the world.