Nation of swine

     aswill in your sty

Gorge at the trough of excess

     until, at last, the glut sates

        to satisfy

A passive lull.


Alounged in your leisure

     and the gilded indulgence

       you treasure:

So empty

     so dense

And so dull.


Dance of a day

     in a rhyme with time

And dream of the sky as water.

Dwell in your thoughts

     all that you hold as sublime,

While quietly led off to slaughter.



Spring 2006

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