Plagues descended upon Kline Tower in satellite swarms.
They came in swaths like army moths, only stupider,
while our eyes were on the lightning bugs
flickering on the Green.
Our eyes on TV screens, flickering of war.
The August air was warm and wet,
adding droplets to brows like
melted wax from Icarus’s wings.
This time, waxless wings laid in piles
as fragments and shreds.
Fresh cream guts glued to the walls.
Burgundy flames (we know it died last week).
Legs, endlessly strewn like hairs freshly shaved.
A killer passed through these walkways.
They brought with them the cavalry.
.
In killing the bug, he made his mark—
Artwork? Perhaps.
Can you call it beauty when
you rub the warlord Mother Nature’s creation
into a fleshy streak with your rubber soles?
