When Others Make War

We are caught in it, a fly
in sunshine, a fly descending,
a fly finding the extended arm
and blood and the body
like amber.  Time has ceased
in one black hole, continues
erratic elsewhere.  And we
are at the center of an explosion.

When we make war, we are
the spider, web spun with precise
intent, the enemy of creation,
focused on only one event
and a justice buried in time,
the explosion, removed from
what time accomplishes —
pallbearer,  celebrant, with
shovel in hand, forever burying.