we could wrap our hatred in white cotton,
warm and secure as if our offspring.
then we could let ourselves wonder aloud
how a god of ether and power
could remain as silent
as a god of wood or stone.

we could blame our affliction
on staggering satellites
slipping from their orbits,
spitting lines of violence
throughout our well-ordered sky.

we could record our sense of abandonment
in the crackle of a worn stylus on wax.
then we could act out a whore's story,
painting desperation onto our faces
in layers of snowy powder
and rage with a yellow laugh.

we could blame our affliction
on the angels that fell,
whose wretched wings kicked up angry dust
and clouded the distance where we sought
that place we were foolishly unafraid to claim.