The Faintest Stir Caused
by a Moth’s Wing Passing
Exactly where does beauty’s essence go?
It sags beneath the wrinkles and that blotch
Distressing tattered skin. The saggings grow
As flesh slumps down in gravity. We watch
Our children flourish, wilt and die if we
Are cruelly more unfortunate than most.
A spasm in the cosmos makes God see
The growing number of the deadly host
And thrusts divinity to asthma-ed thought.
See, even He can be prevailed upon
To scream. A tortured pope above the lot
Of human ones must note the death of spawn—
All spawn— the loss of beauty everywhere.
Its essence dissipates through troubled air.