This is me, trying to understand:
spatter in all directions.

But in two weeks the news
relents, lurches sideways into what

will be forgotten within the month.
Scavengers hoist torn shadows

away over clifftops. Within
those cliffs, imagine a crawl,

your torch gnawing the walls:
bones of men, frames of eagles—

the remains intermingled.
All this time the weeping continues

as snow negotiates the tension
yoking blossom to blaze,

gracing oaken gullies,
shaking the myth by the throat.