Placing a nuclear device in horizons of sandstone, pulverizing walls, telluric life...shouting obscenities the ground above rattles windows fifteen miles away--hactcin run for cover.

A blue mysterious glow rising with no shape vanishes into Earth's opened hands etched with dermatoglyphs, osteoarthritic fingers painfully offer a holocaustic host in the rigor of Death's mudras.

What do cockroaches feel nesting in palms itchy with primeval fear? At critical mass, light squares scarabs etched at the height of prayer.

Where is the enemy hiding in this weedy transitional plot? Wild plums wither on healthy limbs, the hundred-headed narkissos is plowed under with New World mushrooms wet, from perennial tears.

All the dead are innocent of war, with no viable sides anymore we are not even beings but seeds of Being germinating hungry ghosts, choking on odors of sophistic schemes, following the glow up.