Living Herds

When the air dries itself out on the line
And the olive trees turn pale in their mossed graves,
When the poignance of an Eastern Harem withers
With the rains of yesterday, or the memory of
Sweet wet drudging over pores, pure unlike
The cloudy sweat of living herds,
Children like jackals prowl in these packs
Through tin alleys moving Gaza
Because their elders can not.
And their bellies moan like flies caught indoors
Between vertigo and a distant illusion of Nirvana.

Glorious maker, the suffering puts you on high ground
And the hands, the hellish intention of hands
Shape shifts into a fragile house of cards.
This question is gospel-
Will you let your offspring fly like ghosts
Into an army of shadows underneath
A reoccurring sun?

At once, we believe that humans do not have teeth.
Together now, we will remain bitten.