Affection
We watch the moving topography of brutality, the red slopes
and orbs mapping deaths from virus, from fire, from firearms.
It feels impossible to think redand visualize beauty and yet
red roses are splashed all around the city, so brazenly alive
that they stupefy me. People stop, pose, take pictures
of their loved ones under the mess of flowers.
I love the red beak of the rose-ringed parakeet even after I find
the threat they pose on the land I live. Affectionmeans both
fondnessand disease.
Words reflect the world, which is to say nothing makes sense.
If we say only civilization can finishthe world,
does it mean to completeor destroy? If we say the world might
weather—
to endure or wear away?
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