There are no more moments to breathe
only the certain still of waiting for the next,
and all the noise
climbing into our ears and nostrils and mouths.
And again, we are sorry.
Everybody is so sorry.
And the ghosts of thousands of laughing prophets
sent by thousands of different gods, deafening,
while I pray to little jars of ink,
lips brushing my skin,
a wine bottle,
the way my heart wrenches and clamours
when someone else is crying: my humanity;
The only comfort
I can live with
while the world around me bleeds to death.
We are all dying. Everybody is dying.
We should not die like this.