Desolation or Miracle?

Two kinds of nature,
such kindness and the shadowy
cycle of return.  The sky each evening,
the day's horror.  One for
the innocent, the other for
the guilty.

Playing with blindfolds
when the fire's spreading
courage or stupidity, sweetness
or bile. Without reluctance
repeated acts

of violence or miracle.

No one told them
the world would touch them
with the same hand they bite;
tear them from a place
they built, a contradiction.

Still, we were made
for this.  Outside or in,
the filled or empty vessel like
a cow's carcass floating
in a polluted river while

women scrub
their children's

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