Armies of Small Things

They collect on the table before us.
We move them about like game pieces
yet we hurt them when we move them.
We crack them out of their soft shells and roast them in flame,
little larvae without eyes or wings.
Strip them nude and sketch their private parts.
The trees, this year, have released moths instead of seeds.
They are stillborn as they fall into the yard.
My building has grown a few strands of gray hair,
which must be cut with a blade no smaller than a sofa.
A chair counts seconds while sharpening a knife.
Mice descend upon the garden like flies
to the belly of a deceased swine.
Soup for supper. Peace in between.
Peace in between the nails in my wall.
Peace in between the feathers of a drunken angel.
Peace amongst the infantry.

Glowing like the ten eyes of a deep-sea fish.
White and blue, the silent blood of a newborn.
Take me upstairs and amputate my eyelids—I want to stay up for this show.