The news says:
the scouring of the earth began today,
so press your greasy fingers
against the triple-pane window
as you crave the heat of summer.
When we peer fearfully around the curtain,
we see the worms,
a warning the ants carry off the pavement.

There are holes punched
out of the whole world,
gaping,
unmoving, unapologetic,
wounds seeping into every thing on Earth.
Even the people bleed,
letting into and onto each other.
I open my mouth to sing,
and they dump the plasma in.

To chew with no result
(either spit or swallow)
is the request.
I try and pour the sorrow
back out of me,
but to do so is to look
into the holes I must spill it into,
their eyes shining back through mine.

It is endemic seasonally,
seemingly to every season,
so I seek an end,
seemingly endlessly.
In the morning I wake up rotten,
and by the evening I have been debrided.
Then the news comes in again;
I must start the search anew.