In time

 

like mold in a washbasin

 

the plague

 

which we made

 

which we are

 

grew

 

(warmth and water)

 

lungs provide both

 

in ample measure

 

tents of bodies

 

collapsing

 

as in a windstorm

 
 

leg-poles bent

 

flaps of skin torn

 

death always

 

flies

 

quickly

 

a thousand crows

 

a puzzle

 

of sky

 

thin cracks of light

 
 

a map

 

that shows the way

 
 
 

to suffering.