Pity. Take pity. Surely, when the lion
lies down with the lamb,
it is not the lamb receives
the lion’s share.

The hungry are never satisfied.
Hunger must be fed.

The angel, body-less, matter of fact,
daubs the door with an innocent’s brush:
the first born dies with the last.

Someone says, let the dead bury the dead.
I do not say this
world or any other is conceived,
any more than those worlds,
alive, are
froth on the lips of the mad.

The mourning dove trapped in my house
beats itself senseless on the glass.
So clear is that escape,
a litter of feathers
limns the floor.

Open the windows!
Open the doors!
Still it will beat its head
against the closed.

Next time the god comes streaming
out of the four corners of the world
to take you by the hand,
greet him. At the crossroads,
pity. Take pity.

Already he knows.
You have killed him.