A lighthouse beam swings over the shore,
takes account of the mess. Another
by plastic around its neck. I count feathers
on its spackled breast and imagine each
feather’s another body taken
from desert to sea. The ones ejected
from cities they were born in, and the ones
with gunpowder in their veins,
and the ones who asked for mercy and
didn’t ask for mercy.
I count in my numbing head
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