Nothing like cloth
for heft and hand,
nothing like a mob
to substitute command,
a bucket, a boat
a shoreline, land.
image: a whale mistaken for an island, 13th cent. British Library: http://www.bl.uk/catalogues/illuminatedmanuscripts/TourBestiaryEnglish.asp
Think of us, the many of us
cut for fuel, think how we rested
in shallow water when we died
still tied to the way we fell.
Think of the country we then
occupied beneath your passing by,
the uncomplaining ranks of us
in each our solitude. Think how
little murder looks like sacrifice
depending on your point of view.
Think of us still holding onto
some mystery we could not let go
until you came to turn us into
something burning and alive.