It’s the middle of the night
in the wee hours of the morning
and somehow we’ve come to understand
how that all makes sense.
The birds are southward,
and turtles and snakes and frogs and bears
are dug down deep
while deer run for their lives
from people with guns in orange camouflage,
and a turtle might stir
as hoofbeats pound over
and have the passing sensation
that it isn’t as cold as it might have been
for those earlier in its line,
while one politician tries to tell it
that the place is certainly getting warmer
and another is telling him that that’s just
another lie they tell to fuck with the commerce,
because that’s what each’s group wants them to say
and sometimes they don’t watch their language.
This comes as no surprise to God
as He sits back and doesn’t even bother to laugh,
there be no real reason for the disagreement;
it’s not like any of them are going to do
anything
to prove his side right
unless He says it’s so.
And the hunter eats the meat
as it’s supposed to be,
and the dust that flies
off the skin that will become a rug
will one day be salt that can be squeezed
from the drops of the Dead Sea,
when the turtle’s line will be
further along,
when it might be warmer still,
and it still won’t matter much more
than which side’s dude kissed more babies
or which side’s nailed fewer interns.
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