There are rings around my eyes.

Clear are Saturn’s,

in the telescope upon my neighbor’s roof.

Clear are Saturn’s,

In the paint upon the walls.

You could transfer the look in the Titan’s eyes to any cancer victim.

Any diseased or envicera’d creature.
The same look in the rabid fox,

In spine bent dog ‘neath a tire,

On a mother holding her pox’d, limp, child.

We cannot help ourselves but to consume our children.

And to be consumed, as children.

The simultaneous horror of it, the certainty and truth of it.

Writ upon our faces.

It’s a wonder we bathe at all.

That our faces are not splot with blood.

That we smile at all,

Outside the confines of madness.

Do not blame the bullet.
Do not blame the finger.

Do not blame any other for any tragedy.

The blame lies entirely upon you.

As knew the father,

The neighbor.

Who lost his daughter to a cancer

Knew his fault, his tragic role.

And wore the face of Saturn

His child helplessly consumed

Blood upon his chin

And a hole through his roof,

next to the telescope they put up there together.

Not even the shot fired, would reach the heights of stars.