Everything has been said
about everything that has been done.
Should I therefore remain silent,
or is it important that I say it too?

You would deny me the moon,
forbid me to throw flowers at the feet of the kindhearted, the courageous,
have me capitulate to chronology,
the desperate destructive determination of rain runoff in the desert,

to celebrate and fetishize the unpatterned,
anarchic arrhythmia.
No. I choose to confound the maleficiary,
rebut the avatar of violence,

the cruel animal,
with an enduring endearment,
with ongoing satisfaction and periodic joy,
with specificity leading to the universal.