MOUNTING TABLESPOONS OF GRIEF

In the lobby of a Baghdad hotel,
rockets crater a wall.
Furls of smoke wind their snakes
around a breath; nothing
is spared by auras of doom.
Bombs go off just miles away
as codas of hatred play on the page.
I read about these tragedies
from the china dish of a blue, blue sky
miles and continents apart
from silos of sadness gathering grain.
October here is copper leaves and quiet streets.
Grass still grows against the dew.

AOL records the climbing body count
as if another passing corpse
is just a tablespoon of grief.
Shouldn't we pray for healing rain
even as sand blows in our eyes?
It's five o'clock --
red lanterns of a setting sun
reflect our bloody rivers of gauze.
The news is so familiar now --
wrinkled palms of Allah and Jesus
surround the grips of their swords:
they battle in darkness,
mincing what little of light remains.

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