I tread the field
and crush the budding flower heads,
the scuttling beetle spiders underfoot.
I burn tree wood and smoke the air
and take the car to rifle supermarkets
of packaged goods from across the world.
I eat and have someone kill and chop
and eviscerate for my dainty palate,
and I spit and defecate the remains,
laugh in the wind at the birds that die
from want of grubs in my poisoned garden.
So far away the peasant who lies down
and dies beneath the last tree in the jungle.
And yet and yet,
I love my dog.
Will that be enough?
And who’s to judge?
Osiris cares little enough for spider beetles
and dead peasants,
and would marvel at missiles.
So all’s well in this balance
of death and death.