POETS
ARE NOT INFALLIBLE
It ended, not the way Eliot spoke
of the world wasting to a chorus of
children and frightened cats and dogs whimpering.
It ended, sputtering away in sizzling
shards,
in jagged grasslands, mountains exploding,
ponderous snowfalls of many colors,
mostly red, orange cinders, silver shrapnel
teeming down like spears of mercy on
those
too weak to run, life seeping through
clenched hands.
It ended in wildfire this time.
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