Sonnet XXI

White porcelain, all spotted with green drips
of toothpaste, with remains of meals consumed.
And adding to the medley of the morgue:
rust-coloured patches, marked from water’s whips.

In ghastly beauty, took from their remains,
a hoard of shiny wings are spread like lard.
More water sprays, the massacre proceeds.
All flattened, corpses lay, prostrate with pains.

Swirled in circumference round the massive grave,
Their tiny bodies, killed without concern
are splattered, mixed with blood and chemicals.
The dead ones, live ones, all I cannot save…

In guilt I watch them fall to awful fates,
lamenting, washing, drowning at swift rates.